24/03/2010 Album
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| Plaza de Mayo y Avienda de Mayo 24/3/10 |
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
24 Marzo
Today I had a chilling experience—I attended a commemoration march in downtown Buenos Aires for the ‘disappeared’ people from the 1976 military coup. Chilling, because I looked at the posters that people were carrying of the disappeared and the women on them wore their hair as I did at the time and were born around the same time as I was and I knew that, since at that age I too would have raised my voice against the politics of the time, that I too would have been one of the disappeared. I remember the events, being in college, but I haven't given Argentina much thought until it appeared on the horizon of places I might go to volunteer. To see that the children of some of the pregnant women who were captured and cast aside after giving birth were still missing and the relatives of the handsome men crying as they marched…I’ve never seen anything like this before. I know we had our protests. I know that violence ensued. But 30,000 or 60,000—the numbers vary depending upon who is doing the telling—as one of my new friends said to me as he looked at my pictures—we lost a whole generation of artists and intellectuals. I was going to try to write more but instead I've pared down my pictures. They aren't really repetitive—there was that much blue and white and that much red. Look closely and you'll see the faces of the disappeared. Yes, it was also an opportunity for groups to promote their political agenda, but always there was a line of people carrying photos. Natalie and I wended our way through the crowds, watching each other's back, feeling free to take pictures because we were just two of many. You can see that people with hand drawn signs wanted to be photographed—they wanted their message to carry. Last night Natalie attended a commemoration in the neighborhood where she volunteers for another project where the highest concentration of people were taken. She works with children there who thought that this was an opportunity to carry a flag, or be at one end of a banner. I know that my reaction is strongly related to my physical reaction to the faces, people who could have come from my yearbook, people who would have been my friends. There were activities planned all day long…it has only been a day of commemoration since 2002 and a National Holiday since 2006. But I'm glad that we chose to be part of this rag tag march that stopped and started, seemingly without any more direction than reach the Plaza for the next thing. I don't think I'm that old. That means that this horrible time was not so very long ago. Click on the album cover and thanks for looking. Today, I was the furthest from home I've ever been.
24/03/2010 Album
24/03/2010 Album
Sunday, March 21, 2010
revelations
One reason I'm here is for the differences: similarities between cultures are on the level of individual characteristics. You are as likely to find kind souls, generous with their time in BA as you are in Chambersburg...or not. And equally as likely to find bigotry in some forms with only the name of the target of intolerance changed to protect the innocent (the assumption I'm making is that the bigotry is unwarranted or else we'd call it something different).
Two things first. People talk more openly to me here in BA than they did in MVD. Actually more openly than they do at the place where I reside when not here. For example, my new Spanish teacher—who will be my ex-Spanish teacher come Monday—shared all manner of intimacies with me. Our purported connection--there is always a connection to every relationship here—is that she had lived in Greece for 15 years. She speaks and writes Greek but not always correctly as my mother pointed out as I tried to understand some convoluted explanation of the similarities in sentence construction in Greek and Spanish when using a direct object with a reflexive verb. This teacher does not speak English so all her scribbled notes are in Greek in a cursive form that I do not read, but even after sussing something out and asking my mother about it, examples have often proven to be grammatically incorrect. But that's only one strike. The second is that because I understand her spoken Greek and her Spanish at a level above where I'm supposed to be, she speaks rapidly, conversationally and while in response to my request for her to slow down so that I could follow the whole thing she said that she needed to talk to me as a student and not a friend (hmmmm?) it seemed to be a difficult thing for her to do. A few more strikes that I won't discuss but I'll just say that after the first class I knew I wasn't going to learn from her. I promised to give her a second chance but the second class revealed even more problems; still I promised to finish off the week and then the academic coordinator would come up with an impersonal way of foisting me onto someone else. But that last class exemplifies the sort of intimacies that people here share with me, as if personal boundaries are much narrower than those we know. On that last day, where I had only 90 minutes of lesson instead of 120 because she fiddled with things in and out of the room so long, I learned that she had cramps, that she was on a diet and that is why she kept running to the bathroom, that she'd been married twice but was single again and mostly ate microwaved dinners alone in her room, that her first husband, a Greek, had been her first true love and actually her only true love, that she was filled with Latin passion and hopelessly romantic. She told me all this in Spanish-Greek instead of helping me with my homework regarding the pretérito perfecto compuesto. And then she gave me a quiz, kind of like the ones you find in Cosmo. It was titled 'Are you Romantic'. Things like—have you ever fallen in love at first sight?—have you declared your love on radio or television?—have you lied for love—? I told her before we started that I was hopelessly NOT romantic but she wanted me to take the quiz anyway. I turned out to be a cold person, only answering in the affirmative to: have you ever said I love you & have you ever travelled a long distance for love. And then I listened to all those intimate details about her passionate self that contrasted to my cold hearted one. Lucky for me I already understood the verb tense but it really wasn't necessary that I know that while it is important that a man be intelligent it is more important that he be a good lover. I've thought about it and I don't believe that I have ever spoken to students about such things.
Okay she is just one example of immediate intimacy...I'll tell more some other time.
The second thing is the number of national holidays, so many that people often do not know what they are for simply that it is a day that many people get off work. I guess in a country with many revolutions it is hard to keep track of new holidays as they crop up. The one forthcoming on March 24 is just an example. There is neither class nor volunteering that day. I asked several educated people what holiday we were celebrating and without question people thought perhaps it was holy Wednesday, which is a week later. I got closer with the explanation that it was an independence from dictatorship day but as to which dictator and when I could not get a straight answer from anyone I know so I had to search it out online. I'll write about it after I visit Plaza de Mayo (Ma-show) to see what it means to celebrate one of many days of independence. For now I'll tell you that the day was only commemorated in 2002 and made a national holiday in 2006, so nobody actually grew up with it being a holiday. And what it commemorates is all the people who went lost and missing during the period of time that began on March 24, 1976 and ended in 1983 during a period of time called 'the National Reorganization Process' then and 'the last military dictatorship' or 'the last junta' now. I can't pretend to know other than what I have read and what I shadowly remember from that time, but I may have more to say once I go see the 'massive official events and demonstrations' that mark the day. Or so I'm told.
But the bigotry--for the second time a person I did not know cane to visit me. I wrote about the first one who has 3 degrees of separation from me; this person is five removed from someone I know. I was grateful that the visit took place at my place because I have a little cold. But something uncomfortable happened and I'm not sure how I feel about a repeat. One of the cleaning women came to do her thing and she is someone I really like. She and her weekday sidekick crack me up, in Spanish, and I give them both the worksheets from La Boca because they want to learn English. All the service employees do but they don't have time for classes. So we do a little learning here and there. I tend to be in more than other guests because I'm doing homework or prepping for class so I try out my Spanish on them since I have more than that than they do English. They want to find me an Argentinean boyfriend so that I'm not lonely at night...they want me to eat meat so I get more meat on my bones (pasta is doing a good job of that). I don't always understand the jokes and ribbing but we all laugh. Laughter is always good and even better in a group.
Now I should mention that like in Montevideo, Argentina is in the 97%s white (of Spanish & Italian origin) and 3% mestizo (mixed or non-white. A., the woman who makes me laugh, is one of the miniscule number of mestizo in the city. And she is from Paraguay. These are just some facts.
After a left, I told my guests how much I liked the people in this place I'm staying. What came out of her mouth next was 90% Spanish so I must be grasping more of the spoken language. Her near-tirade had to do with people from the US not understanding the class system in Argentina. That a was probably in the country illegally because that's what people do—come into Argentina and stay, brought in to clean the house of a rich person then taking a job. And that I shouldn't fool myself—if anyone was being nice to me it was because he or she thought I was rich. Except for Alejandro, the manager, because he was from the same small outlying town as she (they'd spoken before she'd come up to my room) but even then it was his job. That I could only trust people of my class (like her?????). It went on—how was it I was going to stay longer than my 90 day visa when the same privilege was not afforded to her by the US? And why was I REALLY here—the volunteering/learning Spanish had to be a ruse. Nobody goes to La Boca Maybe I was looking for a job? Native English speakers were popular as teachers of the language but non-native Argentineans could still do the job at half the cost. And then she wanted me to teach her some stuff in English. It was very off putting.
Of course there are class systems all around even if they are not formally recognized. That doesn't mean there are absolute barriers. And everyone raised in another country is not illegally working in the one of note. I know this plays out everywhere on different levels and I don't need to say more. But with a weak monetary system more people are apt to become even more anti- this or that group. Still, an odd 'welcome to my country' gift. In my own Pollyannaish way I am going to continue to think people are nice to me because I am nice to them.
A parting best image of the week: a few classes ago the homework for the La Boca crowd was to bring in a sentence or phrase in English. Angel, who travels an hour from one of the 'Villas' (ve-shaws) to get to class brought in 'we are the world'. He knew what it meant, and associated it with Michael Jackson. Angel had to miss a few classes but he was there on Thursday. So we all gathered around my iPhone with its crummy sound and listened to the song that I'd downloaded from iTunes. And I had printed off a few copies of the lyrics—another reason we were scrunched together. The perfect moment was the chorus. The first time they looked at the paper...We Are, lesson 1...the second time some whispers, the third time voices. I was asked to play it again and this time we got voices and arms swaying.
Next time I'm bringing in We are the Champions with a video if I can find another one than the one I have in which Freddie Mercury runs on stage at the end of the song wearing only a pair of long tighty-whiteys. I'm not sure I can explain it.
Oh, and one last thing because I didn't write about it last week. My hair needed a serious trim but I'd been told to beware because unless you can speak excellent Spanish you are apt to end up with a mullet, which is the style of choice apparently. So I had Alejandro help me craft several sentences describing that I only wanted the tips cut off and then I went and took my chances. During the FIRST haircut, the dude got distracted because a neighborhood woman came in and told a hilarious story that had something to do with a fish and her husband. He stopped twice in mid-cut to laugh and ask questions so I ended up with a very uneven cut and much more than a trim. I walked away (after the obligatory kiss) wondering how I was going to even it out then found another place and tried again. I will report that I am no longer growing my hair out on top, but at the back, on the bottom, it is about as long as it was before I started last Saturday. So, I ended up with a short version of a mullet. I doubt that I could have stopped either of these guys from doing what they did even if I was better versed in the lexicon of haircuts in Spanish. I'll post a picture soon so that you can see the results. And I'm going to find someone with a steady hand to even off the back bottom. Or not. Maybe when in BA….
Two things first. People talk more openly to me here in BA than they did in MVD. Actually more openly than they do at the place where I reside when not here. For example, my new Spanish teacher—who will be my ex-Spanish teacher come Monday—shared all manner of intimacies with me. Our purported connection--there is always a connection to every relationship here—is that she had lived in Greece for 15 years. She speaks and writes Greek but not always correctly as my mother pointed out as I tried to understand some convoluted explanation of the similarities in sentence construction in Greek and Spanish when using a direct object with a reflexive verb. This teacher does not speak English so all her scribbled notes are in Greek in a cursive form that I do not read, but even after sussing something out and asking my mother about it, examples have often proven to be grammatically incorrect. But that's only one strike. The second is that because I understand her spoken Greek and her Spanish at a level above where I'm supposed to be, she speaks rapidly, conversationally and while in response to my request for her to slow down so that I could follow the whole thing she said that she needed to talk to me as a student and not a friend (hmmmm?) it seemed to be a difficult thing for her to do. A few more strikes that I won't discuss but I'll just say that after the first class I knew I wasn't going to learn from her. I promised to give her a second chance but the second class revealed even more problems; still I promised to finish off the week and then the academic coordinator would come up with an impersonal way of foisting me onto someone else. But that last class exemplifies the sort of intimacies that people here share with me, as if personal boundaries are much narrower than those we know. On that last day, where I had only 90 minutes of lesson instead of 120 because she fiddled with things in and out of the room so long, I learned that she had cramps, that she was on a diet and that is why she kept running to the bathroom, that she'd been married twice but was single again and mostly ate microwaved dinners alone in her room, that her first husband, a Greek, had been her first true love and actually her only true love, that she was filled with Latin passion and hopelessly romantic. She told me all this in Spanish-Greek instead of helping me with my homework regarding the pretérito perfecto compuesto. And then she gave me a quiz, kind of like the ones you find in Cosmo. It was titled 'Are you Romantic'. Things like—have you ever fallen in love at first sight?—have you declared your love on radio or television?—have you lied for love—? I told her before we started that I was hopelessly NOT romantic but she wanted me to take the quiz anyway. I turned out to be a cold person, only answering in the affirmative to: have you ever said I love you & have you ever travelled a long distance for love. And then I listened to all those intimate details about her passionate self that contrasted to my cold hearted one. Lucky for me I already understood the verb tense but it really wasn't necessary that I know that while it is important that a man be intelligent it is more important that he be a good lover. I've thought about it and I don't believe that I have ever spoken to students about such things.
Okay she is just one example of immediate intimacy...I'll tell more some other time.
The second thing is the number of national holidays, so many that people often do not know what they are for simply that it is a day that many people get off work. I guess in a country with many revolutions it is hard to keep track of new holidays as they crop up. The one forthcoming on March 24 is just an example. There is neither class nor volunteering that day. I asked several educated people what holiday we were celebrating and without question people thought perhaps it was holy Wednesday, which is a week later. I got closer with the explanation that it was an independence from dictatorship day but as to which dictator and when I could not get a straight answer from anyone I know so I had to search it out online. I'll write about it after I visit Plaza de Mayo (Ma-show) to see what it means to celebrate one of many days of independence. For now I'll tell you that the day was only commemorated in 2002 and made a national holiday in 2006, so nobody actually grew up with it being a holiday. And what it commemorates is all the people who went lost and missing during the period of time that began on March 24, 1976 and ended in 1983 during a period of time called 'the National Reorganization Process' then and 'the last military dictatorship' or 'the last junta' now. I can't pretend to know other than what I have read and what I shadowly remember from that time, but I may have more to say once I go see the 'massive official events and demonstrations' that mark the day. Or so I'm told.
But the bigotry--for the second time a person I did not know cane to visit me. I wrote about the first one who has 3 degrees of separation from me; this person is five removed from someone I know. I was grateful that the visit took place at my place because I have a little cold. But something uncomfortable happened and I'm not sure how I feel about a repeat. One of the cleaning women came to do her thing and she is someone I really like. She and her weekday sidekick crack me up, in Spanish, and I give them both the worksheets from La Boca because they want to learn English. All the service employees do but they don't have time for classes. So we do a little learning here and there. I tend to be in more than other guests because I'm doing homework or prepping for class so I try out my Spanish on them since I have more than that than they do English. They want to find me an Argentinean boyfriend so that I'm not lonely at night...they want me to eat meat so I get more meat on my bones (pasta is doing a good job of that). I don't always understand the jokes and ribbing but we all laugh. Laughter is always good and even better in a group.
Now I should mention that like in Montevideo, Argentina is in the 97%s white (of Spanish & Italian origin) and 3% mestizo (mixed or non-white. A., the woman who makes me laugh, is one of the miniscule number of mestizo in the city. And she is from Paraguay. These are just some facts.
After a left, I told my guests how much I liked the people in this place I'm staying. What came out of her mouth next was 90% Spanish so I must be grasping more of the spoken language. Her near-tirade had to do with people from the US not understanding the class system in Argentina. That a was probably in the country illegally because that's what people do—come into Argentina and stay, brought in to clean the house of a rich person then taking a job. And that I shouldn't fool myself—if anyone was being nice to me it was because he or she thought I was rich. Except for Alejandro, the manager, because he was from the same small outlying town as she (they'd spoken before she'd come up to my room) but even then it was his job. That I could only trust people of my class (like her?????). It went on—how was it I was going to stay longer than my 90 day visa when the same privilege was not afforded to her by the US? And why was I REALLY here—the volunteering/learning Spanish had to be a ruse. Nobody goes to La Boca Maybe I was looking for a job? Native English speakers were popular as teachers of the language but non-native Argentineans could still do the job at half the cost. And then she wanted me to teach her some stuff in English. It was very off putting.
Of course there are class systems all around even if they are not formally recognized. That doesn't mean there are absolute barriers. And everyone raised in another country is not illegally working in the one of note. I know this plays out everywhere on different levels and I don't need to say more. But with a weak monetary system more people are apt to become even more anti- this or that group. Still, an odd 'welcome to my country' gift. In my own Pollyannaish way I am going to continue to think people are nice to me because I am nice to them.
A parting best image of the week: a few classes ago the homework for the La Boca crowd was to bring in a sentence or phrase in English. Angel, who travels an hour from one of the 'Villas' (ve-shaws) to get to class brought in 'we are the world'. He knew what it meant, and associated it with Michael Jackson. Angel had to miss a few classes but he was there on Thursday. So we all gathered around my iPhone with its crummy sound and listened to the song that I'd downloaded from iTunes. And I had printed off a few copies of the lyrics—another reason we were scrunched together. The perfect moment was the chorus. The first time they looked at the paper...We Are, lesson 1...the second time some whispers, the third time voices. I was asked to play it again and this time we got voices and arms swaying.
Next time I'm bringing in We are the Champions with a video if I can find another one than the one I have in which Freddie Mercury runs on stage at the end of the song wearing only a pair of long tighty-whiteys. I'm not sure I can explain it.
Oh, and one last thing because I didn't write about it last week. My hair needed a serious trim but I'd been told to beware because unless you can speak excellent Spanish you are apt to end up with a mullet, which is the style of choice apparently. So I had Alejandro help me craft several sentences describing that I only wanted the tips cut off and then I went and took my chances. During the FIRST haircut, the dude got distracted because a neighborhood woman came in and told a hilarious story that had something to do with a fish and her husband. He stopped twice in mid-cut to laugh and ask questions so I ended up with a very uneven cut and much more than a trim. I walked away (after the obligatory kiss) wondering how I was going to even it out then found another place and tried again. I will report that I am no longer growing my hair out on top, but at the back, on the bottom, it is about as long as it was before I started last Saturday. So, I ended up with a short version of a mullet. I doubt that I could have stopped either of these guys from doing what they did even if I was better versed in the lexicon of haircuts in Spanish. I'll post a picture soon so that you can see the results. And I'm going to find someone with a steady hand to even off the back bottom. Or not. Maybe when in BA….
Monday, March 15, 2010
And behind door number 3
To be at the mercy of any bureaucracy is at best annoying, at worst terrifying. Here, now, at some agency between me and customs and between me and my package. Speaking a kindergarten level of Spanish requires that I dissociate just to endure time. I'm not even in queue: it's time for lunch.
In this warehouse is an entrance and three doors. I came through the door guardian, a woman who speaks some English and who was able to tell me the sequence. Door 2, back to her, door 3 for Sr. Customs, visit 1; door 1 for something, door 2 for something else, door 1 but only partway in to pay for the 'rent' of my package: (Days x kilos. Factor in how long I've been in the country), door 3 again to Sr. Customs with a form stamped paid, then finally door 1 to retrieve my package with the paperwork and then door 2 or a final goodbye before handing something to the guardian of the doors to be allowed to leave the warehouse. I know that I left some door hopping out because there are 12 steps, according to the website of this place. I came in having performed step 1 so I only have 11 steps today, and at this point I've also gone through step 2 so I'm down to 10.
Even to get to this building which is on the airport property but not near it by any means the remise driver took us by many gates with multiple guards. My passport was taken, inspected, and used to generate a ticket by a uniformed man with some kind of weapon. While my driver does not speak English he has been tasked to take me to an exact address by the hotel manager. And then, because we all thought I was going to the airport, he was going to leave me since we had no indication how long this process would take.
I received a slip of paper with my name on it, as well as my date of entry into the country. The remise driver, Coco, (Coconut in Spanish), as we drove through several gates of guards, me showing my passport and slip of paper, Coco did the talking, trying to find my destination: Solicitud de Particulares, As we got deeper into this warren of gates, he offered to wait for me at a cost and not charge me for the trip back. I looked at warehouses, guards, forklifts and packages the size of my shed and said yes of course. I tried to talk to him about where I would find him but he said no, he'd find me. I was told I'd have to go the rest of the way alone on foot. Sr Coco let me out and thus began the process of showing not only the slip of paper and my passport but my 'guia', which means guide and makes no sense in this context because it was a copy of the shipping label stamped paid.
Okay, so what I'm picking up is a package of refills of my meds that a shipping company accepted payment for to express deliver it to my door. Yesterday I received a mysterious letter. Half of it was for what a business was supposed to do, and half of it for someone like me. The clearest part of the letter was that I needed to pay $60 + tax = $73 US to receive the 'guia'. I had to go to an office in Centro to do this. Most every office I've been in has those machines we have in grocery stores or delis where you pull out a number and wait for it to be called. In this instance there were two machines both with the name of the company so I took a guess and picked one. And then since nothing seemed to be happening, I took one from the other machine, which made a woman behind a glass window start chastising me. She told me to sit down and wait for my number. Okay fine, I figured out which was the correct number since it was apparently not she who would be helping me. My number came up, and some other guy jumped up and went to the window. A man sitting next to me looked over and shook his head because he could see that I was holding the winning number. But that too passed, When I did get to the window, we spoke Spanglish. I do that a lot. The man took my letter, my $100 bill US, my passport, my copy of my passport and disappeared. He came back with a photocopy of my $100, front and back, and gave me this 'guia'. Now what, I asked. He gave me the address of the place I'm now sitting, and dismissed me with a 'good luck'.
Now, in the meantime, the shipping company had told us several stories. The first was that the US branch should have told Fredd that they never deliver meds to the door in Argentina. What they would do, however, is give my package to a broker, What broker? The hotel's broker. The hotel doesn't have a broker. But that's who we gave it to.
Okay.
On the US side, Fredd had to speak to the one Argentinean specialist. I'm supposed to have received permission from agency in the US to ship the meds, and some agency in Argentina to receive them. Or I need the original prescriptions, which are no longer in our possession since otherwise I wouldn't have the meds. Okay I need copies. Copies are in the box. You can't open the box. And then they mysterious broker would get the package through customs but the shipping company had absolved themselves of responsibility once I paid the tariff so no need to call again.
My hotel manager friends Alejandro and Carlos 2 (there are 3) have called various places to see if they could find out where the package might actually be. And that's when Alejandro found this woman, the door guardian, who speaks some English and brought me to the first door which was door number 2. But first she asked me if the meds were for personal use or to sell. She was confused because the package weighed so little. I told they were for me and she relayed this to the woman at desk 1 door 2 who used her computer to generate another piece of paper with a case number and told me to return to the door guardian….who very apologetically told me that normally I would then go to door 3 but it was 13:00 and that's when everyone goes to lunch for an hour. I asked her if she could write me a note explaining this to Coco so that he could make up his mind about staying. When I walked out to show him the note I was told I couldn't go out and come back so I walked up to the chain link fence where he stood, staring in at the activity that had now slowed down, thinking I was coming to say let's go. I held the note up to the fence and he read it and he said he would wait and that I could find him at the fence. So, now if I wanted my package I had to wait out lunch. I felt as if I was in a zoo.
To pass the time I used my iphone to write this much, because conjugating verbs out loud was my second best option.
At about 10 to a few people came in and joined me on the chairs. Some of them seemed nervous. I, as I said, had decided to dissociate. 14:00 came and went but the door guardian who had said she'd take me to the next place had not returned. A very jolly man sitting next to me asked me what I was doing. I said waiting because I didn't know what to do next. He looked at my form, saw that door 2 desk 1 had given me a number, and he told me to follow him. We went into door 3, desk 2, Sr. Customs. He was the only person dressed in a suit and tie. He never cracked a smile. He looked at my paperwork, began speaking very excitedly and very quickly and I repeated that I didn't speak much Spanish and por favor a bit slower. He was exasperated. He told me to follow him and we went into door 1. This turned out to be a huge warehouse with a small office to the right but we went right to where the packages were being held…renting space. My little box was dwarfed by the others. I still didn't know how it got to be in this place, taken I suppose by the mysterious broker. Sr. Customs asked for my box, looked disgusted, asked for a knife. He slit open the top, saw that whatever might be in there was protected by bubble wrap and looked at me again disgusted. I actually understood what he asked me: why are you here? And I said to get my package. And I put my hands on it to take it with me and Sr. Customs and three people behind the counter yelled 'Stop! No!'. So I followed the very annoyed Sr. Customs back to door 3 and he told me to do something I could not understand. Nevertheless I left with now another piece of paper. Door guardian was back and she explained that now I was to go to door 1. I understood this to mean into the small office where there were two desks. I began my 'I only speak a little Spanish' when desk 2 said English? And, come here. He was trying to fix a stapler and spent about five minutes jacking around with it open while I waited for him to shoot his eye out. When he finished, he looked through my papers and calculated the days x kilo rent. I paid it, but it took a very long time because this guy wanted to ask me about Elvis and I strained to come up with something interesting so he'd give me back my papers. He gave me a new one as well, some information in triplicate. He told me to go now to Sr. Customs again. So back to Door 3, Sr, Customs asked again why I was there, then took a heavy stamp and pounded on the triplicate form in triplicate, took 1 copy and shooed me out. I went back to door 1, little office, but this time desk 1, Honestly at this juncture I cannot remember what this guy needed to do, but it was the step between customs and the package because then I got to go back to the counter, hand over another copy and get my package. But, I couldn't leave without door 2 again, this time desk 2. Then door guardian, then out.
I saw Coco at the fence and walked toward him and he gave me a thumbs up when he saw my package. I started to go out the door, but an armed guy pointed me in another direction, I think I was walking along a bus route, or maybe those big arrows were for people whose eyes had failed in the dark. I saw a very narrow path—mostly cars were going through this exit, and was waved over by a guard without a gun, He asked for my paper. I kept trying to give him something I had received during the course of my visit and eventually I displayed the correct form—my entry pass.
And there you have it. A package I needed because I get my prescriptions in 3 month supply and they automatically refill, which Fredd paid $135 to ship to my door, which may or may not have landed with a broker (probably not since I dealt with Sr, Customs directly), another $73 US tariff, 170 pesos 'rent' for my package which sat there for three days before I was informed that it had been lolling about, 180 pesos to Coco for his time. And in all of this, somewhere communication broke down because it really did annoy Sr. Customs that I was bothering him with personal medicine when he had big imports and exports to deal with.
Alejandro, my hotel friend, reminded me when this ordeal began that people may call this the Paris of Latin America but they need to put the emphasis on the latter not the former. He said Argentina loves bureaucracy. He told me about a friend who had joined an ecological organization and was sent a t-shirt and cap. He had to pay 200 pesos to get them out of customs because they had not been made in Argentina. I don't know what would have happened if I had to pay a Made In USA tariff on my meds.
The whole process of going back and forth between numbered offices but in no particular order had me laughing by the end, but only to myself. I know I went thr0ugh it, but it seemed so absurd at the time and even more so upon reflection.
Everyone was patient and nice and even Sr. Customs wasn't so bad. Definitely getting by with the help of friends, of a few days or minutes. Life is good.
In this warehouse is an entrance and three doors. I came through the door guardian, a woman who speaks some English and who was able to tell me the sequence. Door 2, back to her, door 3 for Sr. Customs, visit 1; door 1 for something, door 2 for something else, door 1 but only partway in to pay for the 'rent' of my package: (Days x kilos. Factor in how long I've been in the country), door 3 again to Sr. Customs with a form stamped paid, then finally door 1 to retrieve my package with the paperwork and then door 2 or a final goodbye before handing something to the guardian of the doors to be allowed to leave the warehouse. I know that I left some door hopping out because there are 12 steps, according to the website of this place. I came in having performed step 1 so I only have 11 steps today, and at this point I've also gone through step 2 so I'm down to 10.
Even to get to this building which is on the airport property but not near it by any means the remise driver took us by many gates with multiple guards. My passport was taken, inspected, and used to generate a ticket by a uniformed man with some kind of weapon. While my driver does not speak English he has been tasked to take me to an exact address by the hotel manager. And then, because we all thought I was going to the airport, he was going to leave me since we had no indication how long this process would take.
I received a slip of paper with my name on it, as well as my date of entry into the country. The remise driver, Coco, (Coconut in Spanish), as we drove through several gates of guards, me showing my passport and slip of paper, Coco did the talking, trying to find my destination: Solicitud de Particulares, As we got deeper into this warren of gates, he offered to wait for me at a cost and not charge me for the trip back. I looked at warehouses, guards, forklifts and packages the size of my shed and said yes of course. I tried to talk to him about where I would find him but he said no, he'd find me. I was told I'd have to go the rest of the way alone on foot. Sr Coco let me out and thus began the process of showing not only the slip of paper and my passport but my 'guia', which means guide and makes no sense in this context because it was a copy of the shipping label stamped paid.
Okay, so what I'm picking up is a package of refills of my meds that a shipping company accepted payment for to express deliver it to my door. Yesterday I received a mysterious letter. Half of it was for what a business was supposed to do, and half of it for someone like me. The clearest part of the letter was that I needed to pay $60 + tax = $73 US to receive the 'guia'. I had to go to an office in Centro to do this. Most every office I've been in has those machines we have in grocery stores or delis where you pull out a number and wait for it to be called. In this instance there were two machines both with the name of the company so I took a guess and picked one. And then since nothing seemed to be happening, I took one from the other machine, which made a woman behind a glass window start chastising me. She told me to sit down and wait for my number. Okay fine, I figured out which was the correct number since it was apparently not she who would be helping me. My number came up, and some other guy jumped up and went to the window. A man sitting next to me looked over and shook his head because he could see that I was holding the winning number. But that too passed, When I did get to the window, we spoke Spanglish. I do that a lot. The man took my letter, my $100 bill US, my passport, my copy of my passport and disappeared. He came back with a photocopy of my $100, front and back, and gave me this 'guia'. Now what, I asked. He gave me the address of the place I'm now sitting, and dismissed me with a 'good luck'.
Now, in the meantime, the shipping company had told us several stories. The first was that the US branch should have told Fredd that they never deliver meds to the door in Argentina. What they would do, however, is give my package to a broker, What broker? The hotel's broker. The hotel doesn't have a broker. But that's who we gave it to.
Okay.
On the US side, Fredd had to speak to the one Argentinean specialist. I'm supposed to have received permission from agency in the US to ship the meds, and some agency in Argentina to receive them. Or I need the original prescriptions, which are no longer in our possession since otherwise I wouldn't have the meds. Okay I need copies. Copies are in the box. You can't open the box. And then they mysterious broker would get the package through customs but the shipping company had absolved themselves of responsibility once I paid the tariff so no need to call again.
My hotel manager friends Alejandro and Carlos 2 (there are 3) have called various places to see if they could find out where the package might actually be. And that's when Alejandro found this woman, the door guardian, who speaks some English and brought me to the first door which was door number 2. But first she asked me if the meds were for personal use or to sell. She was confused because the package weighed so little. I told they were for me and she relayed this to the woman at desk 1 door 2 who used her computer to generate another piece of paper with a case number and told me to return to the door guardian….who very apologetically told me that normally I would then go to door 3 but it was 13:00 and that's when everyone goes to lunch for an hour. I asked her if she could write me a note explaining this to Coco so that he could make up his mind about staying. When I walked out to show him the note I was told I couldn't go out and come back so I walked up to the chain link fence where he stood, staring in at the activity that had now slowed down, thinking I was coming to say let's go. I held the note up to the fence and he read it and he said he would wait and that I could find him at the fence. So, now if I wanted my package I had to wait out lunch. I felt as if I was in a zoo.
To pass the time I used my iphone to write this much, because conjugating verbs out loud was my second best option.
At about 10 to a few people came in and joined me on the chairs. Some of them seemed nervous. I, as I said, had decided to dissociate. 14:00 came and went but the door guardian who had said she'd take me to the next place had not returned. A very jolly man sitting next to me asked me what I was doing. I said waiting because I didn't know what to do next. He looked at my form, saw that door 2 desk 1 had given me a number, and he told me to follow him. We went into door 3, desk 2, Sr. Customs. He was the only person dressed in a suit and tie. He never cracked a smile. He looked at my paperwork, began speaking very excitedly and very quickly and I repeated that I didn't speak much Spanish and por favor a bit slower. He was exasperated. He told me to follow him and we went into door 1. This turned out to be a huge warehouse with a small office to the right but we went right to where the packages were being held…renting space. My little box was dwarfed by the others. I still didn't know how it got to be in this place, taken I suppose by the mysterious broker. Sr. Customs asked for my box, looked disgusted, asked for a knife. He slit open the top, saw that whatever might be in there was protected by bubble wrap and looked at me again disgusted. I actually understood what he asked me: why are you here? And I said to get my package. And I put my hands on it to take it with me and Sr. Customs and three people behind the counter yelled 'Stop! No!'. So I followed the very annoyed Sr. Customs back to door 3 and he told me to do something I could not understand. Nevertheless I left with now another piece of paper. Door guardian was back and she explained that now I was to go to door 1. I understood this to mean into the small office where there were two desks. I began my 'I only speak a little Spanish' when desk 2 said English? And, come here. He was trying to fix a stapler and spent about five minutes jacking around with it open while I waited for him to shoot his eye out. When he finished, he looked through my papers and calculated the days x kilo rent. I paid it, but it took a very long time because this guy wanted to ask me about Elvis and I strained to come up with something interesting so he'd give me back my papers. He gave me a new one as well, some information in triplicate. He told me to go now to Sr. Customs again. So back to Door 3, Sr, Customs asked again why I was there, then took a heavy stamp and pounded on the triplicate form in triplicate, took 1 copy and shooed me out. I went back to door 1, little office, but this time desk 1, Honestly at this juncture I cannot remember what this guy needed to do, but it was the step between customs and the package because then I got to go back to the counter, hand over another copy and get my package. But, I couldn't leave without door 2 again, this time desk 2. Then door guardian, then out.
I saw Coco at the fence and walked toward him and he gave me a thumbs up when he saw my package. I started to go out the door, but an armed guy pointed me in another direction, I think I was walking along a bus route, or maybe those big arrows were for people whose eyes had failed in the dark. I saw a very narrow path—mostly cars were going through this exit, and was waved over by a guard without a gun, He asked for my paper. I kept trying to give him something I had received during the course of my visit and eventually I displayed the correct form—my entry pass.
And there you have it. A package I needed because I get my prescriptions in 3 month supply and they automatically refill, which Fredd paid $135 to ship to my door, which may or may not have landed with a broker (probably not since I dealt with Sr, Customs directly), another $73 US tariff, 170 pesos 'rent' for my package which sat there for three days before I was informed that it had been lolling about, 180 pesos to Coco for his time. And in all of this, somewhere communication broke down because it really did annoy Sr. Customs that I was bothering him with personal medicine when he had big imports and exports to deal with.
Alejandro, my hotel friend, reminded me when this ordeal began that people may call this the Paris of Latin America but they need to put the emphasis on the latter not the former. He said Argentina loves bureaucracy. He told me about a friend who had joined an ecological organization and was sent a t-shirt and cap. He had to pay 200 pesos to get them out of customs because they had not been made in Argentina. I don't know what would have happened if I had to pay a Made In USA tariff on my meds.
The whole process of going back and forth between numbered offices but in no particular order had me laughing by the end, but only to myself. I know I went thr0ugh it, but it seemed so absurd at the time and even more so upon reflection.
Everyone was patient and nice and even Sr. Customs wasn't so bad. Definitely getting by with the help of friends, of a few days or minutes. Life is good.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
One of my favorite things about this neighborhood is the Mercardo. That's the place with stalls of old stuff leading in from four different streets, and then a center where you can buy fresh produce. It is open every day, although some stalls, like the one that sells cheese, closes at odd, unposted times. I know that there is a great deal of meat and a couple of places that cook it for you before you sit down and eat it,but that's all I can tell you about that. I go across the street to the fresh pasta store, as long as I can find my way out.
This is Defensa (one of the streets in San Telmo) on Sunday. It's kind of like this all the way to Plaza Dorrego where it's equally as crowded but around a square where people sell mostly old things and tourists take pictures of the quaint cobblestone streets and the buskers and the musicians. I'll post one of the latter.
My part of town is a little less ritzy than most...it borders La Boca & Constitucion. And I live two blocks beneath the street that some people won't cross...except on Sundays. It's not so bad considering my experiences in Adams Morgan. But the sidewalks are often lined with stuff like this...except on Sundays and not at all above that street of which I'll write soon.
Some very nice people--a friend of the girlfriend of a guy I once sat next to in yoga class and her son--spent several hours walking me around their neighborhood. They live in Barrio Norte, which is right next to Recoleta, one of the swankier parts of town. And this is a picture of Cementerio de la Recoleta...a very organized grid of roads with crypts along the way. It reminded me of New Orleans. Ric, the son, is still in school and only speaks a bit of English but he gave me the historic tour...we save the graves of men who had led various revolutions. It seemed as if there were too many monuments so I asked him if Argentina was always in revolt and he said yes. He scoffed at the grave of Evita. I couldn't even get close to it but I managed to capture a picture of a plaque that I will put up.
A frequent event
People marching down Av. de Mayo. They happen to be crossing Av. 9 de Julio at this point. One color brigade on either side of the Av. I was headed toward the volunteer house and ended up a bit ahead of them--it takes a long time to march with banners and drums. And drums there were--they drowned out our orientation meeting so that we had to close the windows. Another march that I know of is taking place tomorrow. I know this because Natalie and I went to teach today and we could not find anyone we knew...and then were told that they were 'painting the street'. Berta & Johan asked if we wanted to see their accomplishment so we followed them (Berta was covered with paint on her hands and her clothes) to a convergence of underpass and empty lot. In Argentinian blue & white they had painted huge slogans in support of the President. The parade was going to end up going down Av. de Mayo--at the end of it is the Plaza Congreso. Later a friend told me that if they were in support of Christina, that meant they were receiving government funds. I won't be able to watch this parade as I'll be dealing with the government in another capacity that I'll write about later.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Getting ready for day two
So, Buenos Aires. A bus is a ‘Colectivo”—a city bus, so none of that multi-company line system to follow. But, and this is obviously only my humble opinion, that’s the only thing that these buses have over Montevideo. True, there is a ‘guia’ (guide) that uses a very complicated grid system to tell you which lines you can take to your destination. Everyone touts it as a wonderful, easy to use source of information. My brain does not work that way. I understand the subway system (Subte) but unfortunately nowhere I need to go at this time can be reached by the subte. So I get to take the bus. What this Guia does not tell you is where the bus stops, so for example today I’m going to start to walk down Bolivar, the street my bus #29 should come down, and look for a stop. I have seen people who live here not know exactly where a stop is supposed to be. And also, the same numbered bus can have more than one route so you have to ask the bus driver if it goes to your destination. In my case, both routes for the #29 do, so that isn’t an issue. However, you tell the driver where you’re going and he pushes a button and the machine behind him indicates how much you have to pay. It seems that I always have to pay 1.20 pesos. Now, here comes the hard part. The machines will only take coins. The driver cannot make change. That would be a simple enough transaction except that there is a peso crisis. People hoard pesos. In jest, the person orienting us to the bus system said that there was a rumor that it was organized crime doing the hoarding. Who knows. But here is how this hoarding manifests itself: yesterday I bought several items in several stores. Only in one instance did the merchant give me a coin in change. In the other places I was given back MORE money than I was due so that it could be in bills. When I was at the Chinese grocery store I was very excited because I saw that the cashier had a drawer full of coins and my total allowed me 1.95 in change. That would be a one peso coin and a bunch of lower denominations. But instead she gave me a two peso bill. There was a woman in front of me who was still standing there begging and pleading for the cashier to give her .50 peso so that she could take the colectivo. She was saying that she had come to the store for many years, that she was an old woman, and I was ready to give her one of my measly .50 peso but the cashier finally relented and traded her 2 peso note for the .50 peso. When I came back to the apart hotel I asked Alejandro, one of my two reliable guides to the city if I was entitled to my 95 in coin and he said no. The merchant can give me whatever he or she wants in change as long as it is at least as much as I’m due. So, I have enough pesos to get me to the community center for this week and next. I’m apparently allowed to try to go to the bank and see if they’ll break a 20 peso note but people stand in long lines for this and some days the banks will do this and other days they will not. Another gentleman at the hotel told me that he goes to the subte where the one way ticket is 1.10 and purchases one to get the .90. I could collect a lot of subte tickets doing that, I suppose.
As to the buses themselves—somehow they manage to have fewer seats, facing in both directions, and less space for people to stand than in MVD. I’m still trying to figure out how that works exactly. But people do queue up for them in an orderly fashion, I haven’t seen any curtains, and no one signs for pesos because of course they are to be hoarded.
We took the bus (another one, #64) to La Boca on Tuesday. I was given landmarks to help me find it again—luckily Natalie, the young woman who will be teaching with me (she’s in her last semester in college, so yes she is young), has been there one more time than I have, seems to have a good internal compass, and is going to meet me here today. She also is fluent in Spanish, but she’s never taught before. She found it odd that people thought that she could teach English because she’s a English major. All I know is that she is delightful. She is from Potomac MD and we decided that San Telmo, where I live, is like U Street before it had been gentrified. Anyway, the Community Center in La Boca is a wonderful place, an old warehouse with three useable floors. We teach on the third floor, which means HOT since it is still in the 80s and humid. The first floor has a computer lab, a community pantry, and a community kitchen. There is also a work area with many sewing machines. They make various things, one of which is a school uniform that looks like a very long white lab coat. They also make serigraph t-shirts (they were impressed that I knew what that meant but it’s the same in English). Most of the t-shirts seem to be of Che Guevara. In fact posters of Che line many of the walls including in the library, which is on the second floor along with the administrative offices And then on the third floor is a huge empty space with areas defined by long tables for different types of classes. I didn’t quite understand the funding for the center, but it has to do with a certain amount per person served. And then there are the workers like the seamstress(masculine & feminine) and kitchen people. Teachers are all volunteers. Our students were mostly workers but we had two young girls who were in school wanting to take English proficiency exams. But they all pretended as if they did not know any English (except for the coordinator Berta). My Spanish is sooooo bad that they all had a good laugh over it, but we’re going to have to talk in English if they are going to gain confidence in speaking it. Here is where Natalie and I part company. She wants to talk about verb conjugation, and except for the two younger girls, none of these people finished school and they really don’t care to know what we mean by conjugation and gerund and past participle. In fact, they don’t care that there is an infinitive for a verb…just how to use it. I think I’ve won the argument for today, at least. If we become all academic, then certainly our people will not feel confident enough to open their mouth. I want them to understand that I am getting around with my lousy Spanish because I’m not afraid to use it. They want to be able to talk to tourists…to understand them…to serve their meal at a restaurant if they get lucky enough to find a job like that. So, that’s my curriculum plan: practical, but correct, English. And if someone wants more, Natalie can show them how to diagram a sentence. Our biggest challenge on the first day was how long was the class going to be…some people said two hours was too long. Others said one hour was too short. I do not know how we left it, but we’ll show up at 3 p.m. today. Before we left, one of the women asked Natalie if I was her mother. Now, I can understand about 60-70% of what people are saying so I started laughing and laughing before they both realized what I was laughing at. Of course I could be—my sister has a daughter a year older than Natalie. It was just the idea, I guess.
Then as we were leaving, Berta warned us not to speak English once we left the building until we were on the buses (we take different ones). This is why I need to be vigilant and not get lost. This is the most economically challenged areas in Buenos Aires, and if we look lost and like we might have something worth taking, it’s gone. Natalie wanted to bring her laptop to La Boca today and I told her not to. She wears her backpack on the front of her body but I don’t even like that because it obviously looks like there is something in it. She wanted us to meet in the restaurant across the street around the corner from the Center because it is ‘colorful’ but I told her first to ask the people at Voluntario Global (she lives in their group house) if there was any reason we should not. I don’t know if she did, but she’s now coming here and we’ll take the bus together, go over the curriculum, etc. And of course for my part I have her with me knowing where to get off.
I’ m on my way to see if I can print out my worksheets and make copies. I continue to receive goods and services that I did not intend to get so I hope that the person who gave me directions understood what I was saying. Perhaps I’ll get some coveted coins as change!
This weekend I’ll put up some of the cool photos I’ve taken. While I’m sure that I’ll be able to take some inside the community center, I don’t think I’ll be taking any of La Boca except maybe from the bus. But the less I have to steal, the less that can be taken. I’m wearing south American clothes more and more because I put on some pounds eating so much pasta in Montevideo. The clothes are a good thing, but the pounds really do have to go.
Chau chicas.
As to the buses themselves—somehow they manage to have fewer seats, facing in both directions, and less space for people to stand than in MVD. I’m still trying to figure out how that works exactly. But people do queue up for them in an orderly fashion, I haven’t seen any curtains, and no one signs for pesos because of course they are to be hoarded.
We took the bus (another one, #64) to La Boca on Tuesday. I was given landmarks to help me find it again—luckily Natalie, the young woman who will be teaching with me (she’s in her last semester in college, so yes she is young), has been there one more time than I have, seems to have a good internal compass, and is going to meet me here today. She also is fluent in Spanish, but she’s never taught before. She found it odd that people thought that she could teach English because she’s a English major. All I know is that she is delightful. She is from Potomac MD and we decided that San Telmo, where I live, is like U Street before it had been gentrified. Anyway, the Community Center in La Boca is a wonderful place, an old warehouse with three useable floors. We teach on the third floor, which means HOT since it is still in the 80s and humid. The first floor has a computer lab, a community pantry, and a community kitchen. There is also a work area with many sewing machines. They make various things, one of which is a school uniform that looks like a very long white lab coat. They also make serigraph t-shirts (they were impressed that I knew what that meant but it’s the same in English). Most of the t-shirts seem to be of Che Guevara. In fact posters of Che line many of the walls including in the library, which is on the second floor along with the administrative offices And then on the third floor is a huge empty space with areas defined by long tables for different types of classes. I didn’t quite understand the funding for the center, but it has to do with a certain amount per person served. And then there are the workers like the seamstress(masculine & feminine) and kitchen people. Teachers are all volunteers. Our students were mostly workers but we had two young girls who were in school wanting to take English proficiency exams. But they all pretended as if they did not know any English (except for the coordinator Berta). My Spanish is sooooo bad that they all had a good laugh over it, but we’re going to have to talk in English if they are going to gain confidence in speaking it. Here is where Natalie and I part company. She wants to talk about verb conjugation, and except for the two younger girls, none of these people finished school and they really don’t care to know what we mean by conjugation and gerund and past participle. In fact, they don’t care that there is an infinitive for a verb…just how to use it. I think I’ve won the argument for today, at least. If we become all academic, then certainly our people will not feel confident enough to open their mouth. I want them to understand that I am getting around with my lousy Spanish because I’m not afraid to use it. They want to be able to talk to tourists…to understand them…to serve their meal at a restaurant if they get lucky enough to find a job like that. So, that’s my curriculum plan: practical, but correct, English. And if someone wants more, Natalie can show them how to diagram a sentence. Our biggest challenge on the first day was how long was the class going to be…some people said two hours was too long. Others said one hour was too short. I do not know how we left it, but we’ll show up at 3 p.m. today. Before we left, one of the women asked Natalie if I was her mother. Now, I can understand about 60-70% of what people are saying so I started laughing and laughing before they both realized what I was laughing at. Of course I could be—my sister has a daughter a year older than Natalie. It was just the idea, I guess.
Then as we were leaving, Berta warned us not to speak English once we left the building until we were on the buses (we take different ones). This is why I need to be vigilant and not get lost. This is the most economically challenged areas in Buenos Aires, and if we look lost and like we might have something worth taking, it’s gone. Natalie wanted to bring her laptop to La Boca today and I told her not to. She wears her backpack on the front of her body but I don’t even like that because it obviously looks like there is something in it. She wanted us to meet in the restaurant across the street around the corner from the Center because it is ‘colorful’ but I told her first to ask the people at Voluntario Global (she lives in their group house) if there was any reason we should not. I don’t know if she did, but she’s now coming here and we’ll take the bus together, go over the curriculum, etc. And of course for my part I have her with me knowing where to get off.
I’ m on my way to see if I can print out my worksheets and make copies. I continue to receive goods and services that I did not intend to get so I hope that the person who gave me directions understood what I was saying. Perhaps I’ll get some coveted coins as change!
This weekend I’ll put up some of the cool photos I’ve taken. While I’m sure that I’ll be able to take some inside the community center, I don’t think I’ll be taking any of La Boca except maybe from the bus. But the less I have to steal, the less that can be taken. I’m wearing south American clothes more and more because I put on some pounds eating so much pasta in Montevideo. The clothes are a good thing, but the pounds really do have to go.
Chau chicas.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Yikes, starting my project without much ado!
Okay, I'm going to write this cold without first composing in Word and using spell check because my news for the day is huge, at least for me.
I arrived in Buenos Aires on Friday night. Great apart hotel, very grimy but colorful neighborhood. Think Adams Morgan, but dirtier with ocher dog poop piles and open garbage bags on the street corners. But very charming, and sort of a tourist destination because of the tango that takes place and a mercardo and a sunday fair and all sorts of other things I'll talk aboutin detail later. Met the friend of a friend of a student of my yoga teacher for dinner at 10 p.m. My first indication that I wasn't in Montevideo anymore (besides the smog and crowded streets) was that we ate the a Japanese restaurant within the confines of a cultural center. And there was a vegetariana option!
Last night I tried walking home and came up against the filming of a scene...looked like the 1940s After many takes because locals snuck through the police tape, some of us were legitimately allowed to pass. Kind of surreal...reminded me of a time in Madison when someone was filming for a pinball game (wow that was a long time ago) and the streets around the capital were closed.
And today, more closed streets--this time for a huge political demonstration...I took pictures so I'll put them up in a day or two. Av Julio de 9 (different number here) was closed while the two factions marched up against each other with flags and drums and it was wild but peaceful.
I was on my way to my orientation for my volunteer project. It was supposed to last a week. BUT, while the other volunteers get a week learning about the culture in preparation for their projects, I have to start teaching TOMORROW! Okay, I can do this, right? I'm supposed to have an intermediate level of Spanish, which of course I do not, so I'm being paired with a very nice college student, spending her last semester in BA. She was worried because she had been assigned this project because she is an English major and she couldn't understand why anyone would think that would qualify her to teach English. I really liked her and I think we'll make a good pair. Apparently there are no *real* teaching materials (but I don't know what that means) and somehow we have to ascertain what, if anything, the adult students know about speaking/reading/writing English. The coordinator at the community center does not speak English but she is round and jolly and gave me a big kiss (right side here again). My volunteer organization was afraid to tell me that I needed to start teaching tomorrow...but I look at it as a challenge rather than a problem.
While I live very near to La Boca in San Telmo, I'm not supposed to walk there. It is the most 'economically disadvantaged' (we were told to call it that) part of the city with the highest crime rate. If I need to drop bread crumbs I will pay close attention to how I get there so that I can reverse direction at the end of the class.
So, this is why I came to South America, and I'm not really ready, but you know, I'm starting to think that being ready is only a construct.
I arrived in Buenos Aires on Friday night. Great apart hotel, very grimy but colorful neighborhood. Think Adams Morgan, but dirtier with ocher dog poop piles and open garbage bags on the street corners. But very charming, and sort of a tourist destination because of the tango that takes place and a mercardo and a sunday fair and all sorts of other things I'll talk aboutin detail later. Met the friend of a friend of a student of my yoga teacher for dinner at 10 p.m. My first indication that I wasn't in Montevideo anymore (besides the smog and crowded streets) was that we ate the a Japanese restaurant within the confines of a cultural center. And there was a vegetariana option!
Last night I tried walking home and came up against the filming of a scene...looked like the 1940s After many takes because locals snuck through the police tape, some of us were legitimately allowed to pass. Kind of surreal...reminded me of a time in Madison when someone was filming for a pinball game (wow that was a long time ago) and the streets around the capital were closed.
And today, more closed streets--this time for a huge political demonstration...I took pictures so I'll put them up in a day or two. Av Julio de 9 (different number here) was closed while the two factions marched up against each other with flags and drums and it was wild but peaceful.
I was on my way to my orientation for my volunteer project. It was supposed to last a week. BUT, while the other volunteers get a week learning about the culture in preparation for their projects, I have to start teaching TOMORROW! Okay, I can do this, right? I'm supposed to have an intermediate level of Spanish, which of course I do not, so I'm being paired with a very nice college student, spending her last semester in BA. She was worried because she had been assigned this project because she is an English major and she couldn't understand why anyone would think that would qualify her to teach English. I really liked her and I think we'll make a good pair. Apparently there are no *real* teaching materials (but I don't know what that means) and somehow we have to ascertain what, if anything, the adult students know about speaking/reading/writing English. The coordinator at the community center does not speak English but she is round and jolly and gave me a big kiss (right side here again). My volunteer organization was afraid to tell me that I needed to start teaching tomorrow...but I look at it as a challenge rather than a problem.
While I live very near to La Boca in San Telmo, I'm not supposed to walk there. It is the most 'economically disadvantaged' (we were told to call it that) part of the city with the highest crime rate. If I need to drop bread crumbs I will pay close attention to how I get there so that I can reverse direction at the end of the class.
So, this is why I came to South America, and I'm not really ready, but you know, I'm starting to think that being ready is only a construct.
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