Emily Wright • Argentina
“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” – by Ludwig Wittgenstein, found on a wordreference.com forum post.
One realization I have had during my year studying abroad has been the beauty of language. Never before would I have imagined how powerful words can be. Beyond providing a method of communication within and among communities, it has the capacity to cause a multitude of feelings that confuse, frustrate, pacify, and thrill. It can make you smile when you least expect it and make you cry from frustration or delight.
But perhaps what fascinates me the most is how individual words are so uniquely meaningful. Synonyms can help diversify the rhetoric in your essays, but one word can never perfectly take the place of another, that is, when it comes to its social context. While Webster’s may say that two words have the same definition, in reality, those words have different connotations, giving them each their own space in the world of linguistics.
In the same sense, although wordreference.com is more or less my Castellano bible, there is often no clear translation between languages. One language compacts a whole phrase from another language into one single word, while adding even more layers of meaning (case in point: aprovechar). In Chinese, one character can have almost an endless number of meanings depending on what other characters it is used with. This is what is so beautiful to me—the idea that the very thing that we use thoughtlessly on a daily basis has so much power and if we only took the time and thought to harness it, our communication could become incredibly more thoughtful and dynamic.
While I may not have attained the level of Spanish I could have during my time here in Buenos Aires, I at least have improved significantly and I am certainly not going to stop working. As for Chinese, I’m looking forward to starting (nearly) from scratch come this fall. And in the English realm, I have made it my lifetime goal to choose my words more wisely in writing and conversation. Wish me luck.
Linea A
Every so often I have to take the A line on the subway after my anthropology class on Thursdays to go to the center of the city. These short, 20-minute trips are a treat for me. This is not because I particularly enjoy being crammed into the tiny subte cars, which are at least ten degrees warmer than the outside temperature, and emerging sweaty and tired. No, I cherish these subway rides because the A line uses the old-school subway cars. The doors are manual. Inside, the walls are covered with wood paneling, there are mirrors near the doors, and instead of fluorescent tubes the lights are small, dim globes. Rather than being lined up along the sides, the seats are 2-person benches facing each other, lined up perpendicular to the direction of travel. Leather loops hang from the ceiling to steady yourself when the train lurches forward or stops suddenly. Leaning against one of the sides, I can feel it moving out and in, as if any moment it is going to give out. The windows, which have a little leather strap for you to slide open and close, rattle loudly with the twists and turns of route. Riding the Linea A, I can’t help but smile as I imagine the life in Buenos Aires years ago.
Roasted Nuts
I emerged from a long, particularly steamy subway ride one day and smelled a little piece of heaven in the midst of the stench that often consumes the streets of Buenos Aires. Upon reaching ground level, I looked around for the source and after a 180° turn, I spotted it: a small cart on wheels that had a pan on top, in which the vendor was roasting peanuts and almonds in a delicious spice mixture. I handed him two pesos, grabbed a small plastic bag of peanuts, and went on my way, happily munching my new discovery, which immediately turned into an addiction.
Jazzy Afternoons
Beginning at about 4 p.m. every weekday afternoon, the sound of an intermediate-level musician practicing the saxophone drifts through walls, windows, and floors into my room. The sound of scales and squeaks brings me back to the days when I was a young oboist, then flutist, in middle school. In a way the music makes the city experience feel more authentic. It’s reminiscent of a penniless musician playing on a street corner, which is what every city should have, right? Instead, the authenticity is really just a reminder that you are not alone. In the city, people surround you, even in your own apartment. The irony is that in this situation—in the very place where you are in the companion of the greatest number of people—you can feel the most alone.
On May 25th, I tagged along on my parents’ (my “real” parents, who were visiting from the U.S.) date in celebration of their 30th wedding anniversary, which consisted of a fabulous dinner at La Brigada, one of Buenos Aires’ finest parillas (steakhouses), and a risqué tango show, appropriately called Rojo (Red) Tango.
Also on this date, Argentina celebrated an anniversary: its bicentennial of the May Revolution, the beginning of the country’s journey to independence, which was declared on July 9, 1816. The festivities on Tuesday were a culmination of 5 days of activities such as parades and performances that took place along the Avenida 9 de Julio—the main thoroughfare in the center of the city. To put it simply, the bicentennial celebrations were akin to a mixture of a University of Wisconsin football game day and Grant Park on November 4, 2008. Light blue and white, the colors of Argentina’s flag, were on every balcony, every food stand, and every person. It was truly fascinating to see, but I have to admit that if I was in Washington, D.C. and saw American flags everywhere, I would probably be less impressed.
As joyous as the vibe of Buenos Aires became over the course of the weekend, the celebration of la patria brought forth some interesing, and at times less festive, ideas. As I discussed in my urban anthropology class later that week, the bicentennial celebrations were an opportunity for the country to create, or re-create, its image and quickly disperse it to a wide audience. Walking through the huge, temporary exhibition rooms that were themed Human Rights, Environment, and similar titles, I thought about how the display presented the country’s history and current situation. How accurate or slanted were the presentations? What type of image was Argentina trying to create?
In the environmental booth, I read information about the Riachuelo River, which is the most contaminated river in Argentina, one of the 30 most contaminated sites in the world, and is the cause of hundreds of thousands of sicknesses and deaths. The environmental policy in relation to the Riachuelo is the topic of my research project I have been conducting here. There were four large posters detailing information about the river, none of which did more than merely state that there was indeed a serious contamination problem and the government was in the process of addressing the issue. One word jumped into my mind: greenwashing.
Another question that the bicentennial posed is: why exactly is the country celebrating? From the perspectives of some people, including my host parents, there is not much to be honored at this point in Argentina’s history. Inflation remains a consistent problem and large percentages of the urban population lack access to basic resources. Furthermore, corruption within the government continues to thwart positive advancements. However, the country does have much to be proud of, such as fairly high access to health care, not to mention its abundant natural beauty and its fascinating and complex culture.
Regardless, the bicentennial was certainly an interesting opportunity to see the country sporting their Argentine pride, as if I’m not going to witness enough of that once the World Cup begins in a couple weeks. But as my cab driver the other night told me, everyone forgets their differences and comes together for futbol.
While I was sipping my steaming cup of “Plum N’ Carrots” at Tea Connection, my tea sanctuary in Buenos Aires that offers exquisite blends of black, green, and red teas as well as a smorgasbord of delicious juices and comestibles, an obviously indigent man came in and quietly asked my fellow patrons for spare change. After a few minutes, the manager noticed the man’s presence, walked over to him, and politely asked him to leave, giving him a pat on the back and a smile. The interaction was as if the manager were a big brother or an old friend playing the same routine of keeping this man’s behavior in check.
In the Argentine culture, the fraternity of men could not be stronger. It’s a beautiful sight—the hand on the shoulder and exchange of words as two men, whether friends or strangers, cross paths. It is as if the two grew up together, playing futbol in the park as boys and chasing the girls on weekends as young men. Yet even without this shared history, Argentine men have a mutual understanding and respect for one another. Among those who are more intimate of friends, it is not uncommon to see even more physical connections, such as an arm hung around another’s shoulders as they walk down the street.
When I compare this to the interpersonal relations in the U.S., the two cultures could not be more distinct. In the north, everyone is a stranger, exemplified through the cold glances one obliviously tends to give and receive on the street. Our goal is to avoid—be it awkward moments or uncomfortable interactions—and nothing could alter this routine. Could the U.S. ever embrace this type of camaraderie among men demonstrated through physical interactions? A part of me wishes it could be so, however another part believes that homophobia is too strong and prevents men from showing their feelings without constraint. In contrast, it appears that Catholicism plays such a dominant role in Argentine culture that homosexuality does not even enter into the picture when one sees two men together. In a sense, the culture is beyond homophobia—it just assumes that homosexuality does not exist.
Regardless of how this cultural peculiarity came to be, it seems to promote a culture of compassion and solidarity within the city and, when I encounter it in the street or in my tea haven, it has the amazing capability to put a smile on my face.
The other day, Ignacio, my host father, came home in a state of shock and sorrow. He had gone for a walk and had stumbled upon a park that he used to go to with his mother when he was younger. As he remembered, it was always clean and filled with “well-dressed” people. Now, when he sat down and observed the scene, he saw “los pobres” – poverty-striken people lounging in this park. His sorrow was for these people. His shock was from the dramatic change that the neighborhood had undergone just within his lifetime.
I watched Ignacio’s face and felt his emotions as he told his story, and I could not help feeling taken aback by what I observed. Since the 1930s, there have been large waves of people moving from the Argentine countryside to Buenos Aires, placing great pressure on the city’s resources and infrastructure and spurring the growth of urban problems, such as poverty. How could this man, who has lived in Buenos Aires his entire life, be surprised by the sight, and the growth, of poverty?
As for my own experiences, I distinctly remember the first time I saw urban slums. I had flown into Sao Paulo, Brazil, to visit a friend and even after a sleepless 14-hour flight, my eyes were glued wide open as I stared out the window at the endless sea of favelas during our drive out of the city. Since then, I have been fairly exposed, and have been in much closer proximity, to such scenes. In fact, after traveling through South America and living in Buenos Aires, I feel like most of the time I am numb to the sight. However, every so often I am jarred awake as I ride the bus around the city, seeing flashes of people on mattresses, living their lives on the street.
My class, entitled Anthropology of the City, at the University of Buenos Aires has been focusing on the boundaries within a city that creates the “insiders” and the “outsiders.” After listening to Ignacio’s story, I realized that we were both carrying out our lives in our own enclave within the metropololis of Buenos Aires. Recoleta, our neighborhood, is one of the wealthiest in the city, which means it is one of the wealthiest in Argentina. It is inside this area that we find ourselves going about our daily activities without interacting with “los pobres,” without being confronted with the hardships that others are enduring, without being forced to reevaluate our own lives and situations and question whether we are truly grateful for everything we have – from our health to loved ones to material possessions.
No wonder Ignacio returned from his walk that day so disturbed; he had been woken up from his dreamlike life to find his neighbors, his countrymen, suffering. As for me, being exposed to such scenes in a different country wakes me up as well. It reminds me that everything I hear about the world through various news sources in the U.S. is not just another depressing tale from a faraway place, but a reality that I find in Buenos Aires, that I found in Shanghai, and that I could just as easily find in Chicago. The problems that need solving are right in our backyard, and all we have to do is open the window shade and look.
I have always enjoyed Spanish classes at Northwestern, which consist of 55 minutes of awkward and highly entertaining dialogue as the 15 students sitting around the table struggle to properly use the subjunctive and indicative tenses while trying to give of the impression that they memorized the new vocabulary words for the week. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday during my first two years in Evanston, I would always walk out of University Hall with a goofy smile on my face, refreshed and ready to continue my day.
Now, in Buenos Aires, my entire life is Spanish class, and unfortunately, the happy-go-lucky feeling did not get on the plane with me in January.
Every day, I struggle to remember colloquialisms, grammatical rules, and the masculinity or femininity of words while I am taking a class at the gym, discussing an article in my seminar, or chatting with my host family at dinner. I know I have (nearly) all the tools I need to master this language, but when it comes time to open my mouth, only the most simplistic form of Spanish comes out. If I want to use a more complex verb tense, I have to think and my audience has to wait. As for listening comprehension, I have found that when I try to pay attention, all I hear is gibberish, and when I let my mind and ears relax, I understand things like a native.
As a result of these difficulties, my confidence in my Spanish level fluctuates as much, and is as unpredictable as, the weather in the era of climate change. At the start of the day, I can feel like every word I hear is from an entirely alien language, and by the end of the day I can feel as if I am fluent. While I do not necessarily enjoy this rollercoaster ride, I do appreciate the good moments, and I try to muster the strength to move past the bad ones.
For now, I am just grateful for the little specks of hope: not having to repeat myself when telling the bus driver my stop, following the rapid bantering between my sisters and parents at the dinner table, understanding the joke that my professor makes during class. While these instances of my “post-Spanish class high” are short lived, they are helping me stay focused on my overall progress rather than worrying about the numerous bumps along the way.
As my host-dad, Ignacio, says with a sense of determination and a fist pump, “Adelante!”
Every step we took, the beats grew louder and louder and more people were lingering in the street, drinking out of 1-liter bottles of Quilmes, the preferred beer of Argentines. As we walked up to the entrance of Konex, a cultural center in Buenos Aires, people were handing out flyers that advertised future events and selling pieces of chocolate cake that appeared to be the Argentine version of pot brownies. This was La Bomba de Tiempo, or Time Bomb.
When we walked in, we were greeted by a wave of drumming. Twenty-some people, dressed in varying shades of green, were pounding out rhythms on the large drums strapped to their waists. They slowly marched from the open-air part of the center to the enclosed area, all the while following the commands of their leader. For the next hour, the green army played and the sea of people watching, dancing, and grooving, grew.
As the army marched away, the crowd got ready for the main show, turning toward the stage and filling in every open space with another body. The next group slowly took the stage, one by one, each one adding another drum rhythm to the song. Once they were all together, there was no stopping them. The beat kept going and going, filling every person in the room with the music, the rhythm. I felt like my body was one part of a whole being; the way I moved was not dictated by my mind, but by the feeling of oneness that had taken over. The sounds, the sight of a hundred or so people all on the same wavelength, the feeling of vibrations in the floor and the air from the beating of the drums and the peoples’ feet—all of this created an unwinding, joyful environment. It was more than just a show; it was as if we were celebrating life.
The schedule of Buenos Aires is nothing like what I have experienced before – fast but slow, energetic yet sleepy. I wrote four short pieces dedicated to the hours of this incredible city and my adjustment to them.
—–
Each morning I wake up to my alarm, always groggily rubbing my eyes regardless of how many hours I slept that night. With my wooden window blinds closed, I feel like I am in a cocoon in my baby blue room with my warm bed trying to lull me back to sleep. Despite how tired I feel, I resist with thoughts of the multitude of barrios (neighborhoods) and parks that await my exploration.
—–
The Argentine eating schedule is as follows:
8-9 AM: café con leche y tostados (coffee with milk and toast)
1-4 PM: café con leche y medialunas (coffee with milk and croissants)
5-6 PM: mate (mate—a highly caffeinated tea that decreases the sensation of starvation)
9-11 PM: actual food—an average-sized dinner
Fortunately, my host parents are veterans when it comes to working with foreigners and study abroad students, particularly American college girls. Thus, they know that I actually need more substance in order to survive and they provide food accordingly. Nevertheless, my body and mind are still very confused with these eating habits, and they are continually bantering about whether I am full or ravished. (By the way, they do not use the expression “I’m full” in Argentina. Go figure.)
—–
On the streets of Buenos Aires at midnight, couples and friends are finishing their dinners at outdoor tables on sidewalks. They have had a bottle of wine, or two, and you can tell that the night is young. Once the check is paid and the last bit of postre (dessert) is finished, the older crowd might meander back to their apartments while everyone else gets ready for the next locale – a friend’s living room or a bar – for another couple hours. The final resting place for the night will be at a boliche (club) for dancing and partying until the not-so-wee hours of the morning. At 7 or 8 in the morning the porteños (Buenos Aires residents) will find their way back to their beds for a long hibernation. As an early bird who loves to get her worm in the morning, I’m not sure if I will ever embrace this night owl lifestyle. Right now, I think having a “porteño night out” once a month will be perfectly sufficient for my cultural education.
—–
In the midst of the bustling city, many leisurely hours and lazy Sunday afternoons are passed over mate. Armed with a gourd, filtered straw, and a thermos of hot water, friends and families gather around the kitchen table, in a plaza, or on a park bench and pass the bitter tea around, each person sipping a gourd-full of steaming mate. The custom almost seems like a hippie group from the 60s sharing a psychedelic experience, but the innocence and inclusive nature of it makes it a beautiful aspect of the culture that I would like to embrace and bring back with me to my life up north.
As I settle into my new life in Buenos Aires, I wanted to take one last look at my six-week adventure through South America. I chose these ten pictures because I thought they best represented the places I visited, the feelings I had, and the overall beauty I was fortunate enough to witness everywhere I went.
Unlike the average US citizen, I celebrated my 21st birthday without one drop of alcohol in my system. Instead of boogeying down in a bar or club, I was bus-hopping from Valparaiso to Buenos Aires. And so, it is only fitting to devote a post to commemorate all the bus rides I have taken for the past 6 weeks.
21 lines for 21 years and 21 hours:
Stale air surrounds you, suffocating you at times
Humid, cold, hot, dry, stuffy
–these are the environs that fluctuate like two ends of a sea-saw–always extreme, never balanced
Body parts play dead as they fall asleep
then reawaken with a tingly sensation
Smells waft through the cabin
Phones ring, people chat
husbands, mothers, kids–all calling for updates from their traveling loved ones
Children cry, then sing, then giggle with that inhibitionless freedom
Movies play, teaching you new vocabulary words in
Español
And then you look out your window.
You see
flat plains of cropland, of desert
rolling hills of lush green forest
rocky, mineral-rich canyon cliffs showing off their vibrant colors
foggy mountains looming as you wind your way up and down
twisting, curving, setting out straight.
This is the beauty of the bus ride:
in discomfort, you find yourself awe-struck
swept away by foreign landscapes
all from asiento dos, tres, y cuatro.
Note: The buses in South America are not your typical Greyhound in the US. The seats are cushy, they recline into a bed, and they serve you food and drinks. They are a great option, and actually the only option, for long distance if you cannot afford the high price of the airplane tickets.
