Having been back in the UK some 250 days now, it is safe to say that the repercussions of a two-year long Latin existence have not failed to attack.
It came to my attention recently that a sensation of pain or molestia (annoyance/nuisance) had been chipping away at my mind ever since I landed back in London on December 14, 2011.
I decided it was a headache. Every man and woman in his or her life suffers from a headache from time to time. I am also one of these women who is often guilty of forgetting to use reading glasses when necessary, one who is guilty of replacing water with coffee at work and also frequently guilty of having less than the recommended seven hours of sleep per night.
It could have been any number of things, I told myself.
However, a headache cannot last eight months.
For this, the eight month qualm I have had can only be explained as an eight-month-long hangover from machismo.
My theory was somewhat proven correct just by the Oxford Dictionary’s definition of the word.
Definition of hangover:
1 a severe headache or other after-effects caused by drinking an excess of alcohol.
2 a custom, habit, feeling, etc. that survives from the past: this feeling of insecurity was in part a hangover from her schooldays
Whilst I have often been guilty this year of Oxford’s number 1 definition for the noun in question, the second use of the word is what caught my attention the most.
A custom, habit, feeling, etc. that survives from the past.
I then chose to re-write Oxford’s example.
This feeling of insecurity was in part a hangover from machismo.
As part of keeping peace of mind in the beautifully chaotic city of Buenos Aires, Argentina for two years, I embarked on a study of what it meant to be male and female in a city so dominated by machismo, or, what some like to call strong or aggressive masculine pride.
My study ended abruptly. It turned out that analyzing such a matter was even more exhausting than seeing it and living it on a daily basis. I ran instead and left to be home with my family and friends.
Running however, as the wise will always preach, is never the answer. What you run from eventually catches up with you and manifests itself in the most extraordinary and deceptive of ways.
A female friend who had also had the porteño experience chose to run too. Except, she did not call it ‘running’. She called it ‘moving on.’
It later to came to my attention, that despite my friend’s efforts to ‘move on’, it was impossible. Well, temporarily.
Whilst most painful things get better with time, a hangover from machismo takes a lot more patience and willpower to cure than one might think.
My aforementioned friend discovered that upon leaving her querida Buenos Aires, she felt even more empty than she had before. Out of the vacuum, where the space had once been filled with pressure, she now felt nothing, and this made her panic even more.
No hyped sexual tension to cut with her knives, no fraught expectations to perform as a typical female, no questions and no demands to answer to, she exploded.
What would she do with her time now? How would she replace all the melodrama created by cultural difference with calm, and the familiarity of her own roots and surroundings in England?
Well, an English partner was not the answer. But this she tried, for a short while, until it fell apart and it became clear to her that she had not taken the appropriate amount of time to accept and digest the alluring blur of her last few years in Argentina – the country where she had, quite convincingly, transformed herself to fit the porteña mould. The mould that, does not apply here, to English life in 2012.
England has far since moved on since the pre-feminist movement years. But if anything, my friend had not, and had only regressed in her mind into those early years, when social and political circumstances had not allowed women to do what they are free to do today.
Upon hearing my friend’s epiphany, I offered her the only thing I felt I could offer at that moment in time: two paracetamol and encouragement to endeavor in the practice of patience.
Time (and pharmaceuticals) really can heal even the most cracking of hangovers.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The Flaws of Machismo: Part II - Cristina the Machista
Two days after the presidential elections here in Argentina, I have seized what I feel to be an opportune moment to pick up where I left off in my study of the roots and flaws of machismo.
I chose now, not only because I have neglected my quest on purpose in fear of actually working out why machismo is so inherently unpleasant and doomed, but also because Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, wife of the late president Nestor Kirchner re-took the presidency on Sunday by some 53,9pc.
Cristina, or “esa mujer” (“that woman”) as her not so avid porteño fans refer to her, began her first term in office immediately after the end of her husband’s second.
Certainty this time round as to whether or not she would run again was somewhat lacking in the first quarter of 2011.
“Cristina is tired,” explained many a newspaper, in the run-up to the announcement of the presidential candidates. “The death of Nestor in October of last year seems to have used up all of Cristina’s political energy,” one family friend commented to me over coffee in May.
Despite my recent introduction to the country’s politics last year, I had even noticed Cristina’s fatigue and morose public appearances, the dramatic impact of which was heightened by her strict dedication to mourning dress.
However, Mrs. Fernandez was quick to erase any trace of doubt in her followers and spectators when on 21 June she announced her re-election campaign. “Please don’t worry,” she told Argentinians through a television broadcast. “I am fine and will be running again to serve my country.”
“So you’ve got yourself a female president! Isn’t that great?” My nana asked me over the phone, long distance from Boston, Mass.
I couldn’t bear to disagree even in the slightest with my nana, and gave an ever-so half-hearted “yes” in response.
The trouble is, I wouldn’t even know where to start to explain why this female figure, whose achievements and high-powered position as a leader of a Latin-American country should not necessarily make feminists worldwide incredibly proud.
A long standing problem for any foreigner in Argentina is coming to terms with the political jungle that Argentina has created for itself. As a foreign correspondent, I admit that at times, even I still find it very hard to understand.
How can a woman president, who, claiming the presidency by a landslide for a second time, not make a feminist absolutely ecstatic and full of hope for a country where the machismo is so strong and pungent you can almost smell it in the air?*
I, two years on, am still trying to answer my own question.
I refuse to merely brush Mrs. Fernandez off as a puppet of her late husband’s regime, as would the opposition. However, I also refuse to instantly accept her as a role model for feminists everywhere, if for nothing else, but for leading a country where a woman’s reproductive rights are severely limited.
Red paint that has run and dried, un-coincidentally like fresh blood, scream the words “Abortion is murder” from the outer walls of the state university medical school building. Like the eyes of a portrait painting, the words follow pedestrians around the entire building, which is conveniently located next to one of the largest public hospitals in Buenos Aires, hospital de las clinicas.
In Argentina, abortion is a crime punishable by imprisonment, except in cases where the pregnancy is the result of rape, when the mother’s life is in danger or when she is mentally ill or disabled.
However, according to a study prepared by experts from the University of Buenos Aires and the centre for population studies, every year some 460,000 to 600,000 Argentinian women resort to abortion.
According to journalist Mariana Carbajal, every hour seven women are discharged from a public hospital in Argentina after being treated for abortion-related complications.
“Complications resulting from abortions,” Carbajal adds, “have been the leading cause of maternal death in this country for the past 25 years.”
Can we argue that limited reproductive rights in Argentina have to do with its inherently flawed machista tradition, even though the country is led by a woman? Is the country’s female president more machista than we realize?
The research continues…
*I mean quite literally – the smell most common to fill one’s nostrils as walking down almost any street in capital federal is that of meat cooking on the parilla, or barbecue, which is “a smell produced by men's hardwork here in Argentina,” a porteño clarified for me once.
I chose now, not only because I have neglected my quest on purpose in fear of actually working out why machismo is so inherently unpleasant and doomed, but also because Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, wife of the late president Nestor Kirchner re-took the presidency on Sunday by some 53,9pc.
Cristina, or “esa mujer” (“that woman”) as her not so avid porteño fans refer to her, began her first term in office immediately after the end of her husband’s second.
Certainty this time round as to whether or not she would run again was somewhat lacking in the first quarter of 2011.
“Cristina is tired,” explained many a newspaper, in the run-up to the announcement of the presidential candidates. “The death of Nestor in October of last year seems to have used up all of Cristina’s political energy,” one family friend commented to me over coffee in May.
Despite my recent introduction to the country’s politics last year, I had even noticed Cristina’s fatigue and morose public appearances, the dramatic impact of which was heightened by her strict dedication to mourning dress.
However, Mrs. Fernandez was quick to erase any trace of doubt in her followers and spectators when on 21 June she announced her re-election campaign. “Please don’t worry,” she told Argentinians through a television broadcast. “I am fine and will be running again to serve my country.”
“So you’ve got yourself a female president! Isn’t that great?” My nana asked me over the phone, long distance from Boston, Mass.
I couldn’t bear to disagree even in the slightest with my nana, and gave an ever-so half-hearted “yes” in response.
The trouble is, I wouldn’t even know where to start to explain why this female figure, whose achievements and high-powered position as a leader of a Latin-American country should not necessarily make feminists worldwide incredibly proud.
A long standing problem for any foreigner in Argentina is coming to terms with the political jungle that Argentina has created for itself. As a foreign correspondent, I admit that at times, even I still find it very hard to understand.
How can a woman president, who, claiming the presidency by a landslide for a second time, not make a feminist absolutely ecstatic and full of hope for a country where the machismo is so strong and pungent you can almost smell it in the air?*
I, two years on, am still trying to answer my own question.
I refuse to merely brush Mrs. Fernandez off as a puppet of her late husband’s regime, as would the opposition. However, I also refuse to instantly accept her as a role model for feminists everywhere, if for nothing else, but for leading a country where a woman’s reproductive rights are severely limited.
Red paint that has run and dried, un-coincidentally like fresh blood, scream the words “Abortion is murder” from the outer walls of the state university medical school building. Like the eyes of a portrait painting, the words follow pedestrians around the entire building, which is conveniently located next to one of the largest public hospitals in Buenos Aires, hospital de las clinicas.
In Argentina, abortion is a crime punishable by imprisonment, except in cases where the pregnancy is the result of rape, when the mother’s life is in danger or when she is mentally ill or disabled.
However, according to a study prepared by experts from the University of Buenos Aires and the centre for population studies, every year some 460,000 to 600,000 Argentinian women resort to abortion.
According to journalist Mariana Carbajal, every hour seven women are discharged from a public hospital in Argentina after being treated for abortion-related complications.
“Complications resulting from abortions,” Carbajal adds, “have been the leading cause of maternal death in this country for the past 25 years.”
Can we argue that limited reproductive rights in Argentina have to do with its inherently flawed machista tradition, even though the country is led by a woman? Is the country’s female president more machista than we realize?
The research continues…
*I mean quite literally – the smell most common to fill one’s nostrils as walking down almost any street in capital federal is that of meat cooking on the parilla, or barbecue, which is “a smell produced by men's hardwork here in Argentina,” a porteño clarified for me once.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Flaws of Machismo: Part I
As a cultural observer, it is exceedingly difficult not to take mental note of the advantages and disadvantages of practices and traditions within different societies. Social outings, business meetings, even trips to the supermarket, all subconsciously manifest themselves as opportunities to study and consider those involved.
My flaw, perhaps you could say, is my heightened sensitivity when it comes to male/female interaction in any of the above situations.
So how do we identify a machista society without drowning ourselves in a pool of exaggerated generalizations? Among other things, a machista society is one full of passion and an overhwhelming sense of attraction and sexual tension between men and women in day-to-day activities. This for me, is where it begins.
“Take a look at Mexico if you think Argentina is a machista country,” an Argentine said to me once. “Cat calling here is nothing in comparison.” On the one hand he was right. On the other, however, the matter in hand is – we are not in Mexico right now, we are in Argentina, or, to be more precise, Buenos Aires (still known to tourists and travelers as The Paris of the South). Machismo is something inherent in Argentine society, whether the capital city has “come a long way in the past thirty years” or not.
A city worldly renowned for its beautiful, perfectly petite women, Buenos Aires is not short of powerful feminine voices. However, it has been said that a good portion of these powerful voices, al fondo, or deep down, are frequently muffled due to their owners’ inherent necessity to “look good.” And what would be considered “looking good”? Well, certainly not bashing the F word* around the streets of Buenos Aires.
Accordingly, in 2006, BBC Buenos Aires correspondent Daniel Schweimler wrote: “Argentines are under enormous pressure to look good, but the downside is that the number of people suffering from eating disorders is one of the highest in the world, especially among girls.” Schweimler’s claims did not die out before 2010 arrived, nor 2011.
Does this deeper health condition inherent in so many Argentinian women have anything to do with the flaws of their machista surroundings?
“The majority of women here are under pressure to maintain their appearance due to a fear of rejection, which is generated in them from a delicately young age,” one Argentinian woman commented.
“If anything, this fear of rejection torments women involved in relationships with men more than those without partners,” she added.
We had embarked on an interesting concept and I began to evaluate what had been bothering me for quite some time. Why are relationships in machista societies such an internal struggle for not only the women involved, but the men too? Why are they inherently flawed?
The research continues…
*F is for feminist and not for the curse word that you were imagining. With that in mind, the use of this curse word would not be considered particularly feminine or attractive here, despite its universal popularity amongst both sexes.
My flaw, perhaps you could say, is my heightened sensitivity when it comes to male/female interaction in any of the above situations.
So how do we identify a machista society without drowning ourselves in a pool of exaggerated generalizations? Among other things, a machista society is one full of passion and an overhwhelming sense of attraction and sexual tension between men and women in day-to-day activities. This for me, is where it begins.
“Take a look at Mexico if you think Argentina is a machista country,” an Argentine said to me once. “Cat calling here is nothing in comparison.” On the one hand he was right. On the other, however, the matter in hand is – we are not in Mexico right now, we are in Argentina, or, to be more precise, Buenos Aires (still known to tourists and travelers as The Paris of the South). Machismo is something inherent in Argentine society, whether the capital city has “come a long way in the past thirty years” or not.
A city worldly renowned for its beautiful, perfectly petite women, Buenos Aires is not short of powerful feminine voices. However, it has been said that a good portion of these powerful voices, al fondo, or deep down, are frequently muffled due to their owners’ inherent necessity to “look good.” And what would be considered “looking good”? Well, certainly not bashing the F word* around the streets of Buenos Aires.
Accordingly, in 2006, BBC Buenos Aires correspondent Daniel Schweimler wrote: “Argentines are under enormous pressure to look good, but the downside is that the number of people suffering from eating disorders is one of the highest in the world, especially among girls.” Schweimler’s claims did not die out before 2010 arrived, nor 2011.
Does this deeper health condition inherent in so many Argentinian women have anything to do with the flaws of their machista surroundings?
“The majority of women here are under pressure to maintain their appearance due to a fear of rejection, which is generated in them from a delicately young age,” one Argentinian woman commented.
“If anything, this fear of rejection torments women involved in relationships with men more than those without partners,” she added.
We had embarked on an interesting concept and I began to evaluate what had been bothering me for quite some time. Why are relationships in machista societies such an internal struggle for not only the women involved, but the men too? Why are they inherently flawed?
The research continues…
*F is for feminist and not for the curse word that you were imagining. With that in mind, the use of this curse word would not be considered particularly feminine or attractive here, despite its universal popularity amongst both sexes.
Friday, July 30, 2010
“Fuimos, Argentina” – Surviving the Winter, Dusting off the Remnants of the World Cup and the Importance of the Argentinean Dog Coat
As winter lingers here in Buenos Aires, disappointed football fanatics hang up their remeras, or team shirts, and replace them with winter abrigos, or coats – a sight I never believed I would see during my year-long jaunt in Buenos Aires. I was among those ignorant extranjeros, or foreigners, who automatically linked Latin America to tropical climates and sunny living. My expectations were met with great force upon my arrival in January when the greedy Argentine humidity hit me in the face as I stepped out of the door at Ezeiza International Airport. However, January, February and March came and went. Before I knew it, I had delved into my sweater supply which I had once so bitterly resented in the dog days of Enero, or January. Furthermore, my winter coat was soon summoned out of the abandoned suitcase in the closet, and quickly demanded I buy ear muffs to match it (N.B. which were shortly followed by mittens). Ashamed to admit to anyone back home that yes, Argentina does indeed get “rather chilly,” I convinced myself for quite some time that it was merely a “phase” and something to do with that sneaky and detrimental pest we refer to as Climate change.
As I complained long distance about the winter to my mother, and then as she reminded me of how much I had already complained during the Argentine summer, I tried to make a list of all the positives that an Argentine winter actually had to offer. And not just any Argentine winter, but this very Argentine winter, which offered us Mundial, or World Cup, festivities galore. One day on the number 132 bus, I had delighted in hearing a group of uniformed school children commenting on the fact that this year was the year of “White and Blue”, or, in other words, quite a year for Argentine patriotism. With a two hundredth birthday having been celebrated in May, the country now eagerly looked towards the hopeful team carefully selected and organized by perhaps one of the greatest players and Argentinean personalities of all time, Diego Maradona himself.
The mental preparations for the World Cup were no small chore, and it took quite some time for the Argentine people to get not only their white and blue ready, but also their vocal chords, their physical fitness levels (with which they would fight the crowds to the front of the pantallas gigantes, or giant television screens), and their complete conviction that Argentina would win and bring home the shiny golden cup. These measures took only a few months in the eyes of an extranjera, like me, whilst to the porteños it had been a four year wait. An advertisement campaign released on Argentine national television comically highlighted the passion and emotion prevalent in the majority of the country when the national team stepped up to compete against another country in the Mundial. “If their team loses,” one actor posing in the street commented, “they just go home and weep. No one speaks for days.” I suppose I took this advertisement too light-heartedly.
When Tevez, Messi and friends said their final goodbyes to the chance of bringing home the oro, or gold, against Germany, I did not hear a peep out of the majority of the city for hours. For what is normally a hectic and at times overbearingly loud ciudad, Capital Federal ever so uncharacteristically wrapped itself up in a blanket and shut itself up in a corner, avoiding conversation and contact with anyone or anything. I comforted the city in any and every way that I could, by engaging anyone I found in small talk about other topics. “Forget Messi’s fatigued final performance for now,” I encouraged, “and concentrate on finding that perfect overcoat for your dog to greet the winter with open paws!" (N.B. Dog coats are so popular in Buenos Aires that they are not solely modeled by lap or handbag canines, they are even favored by Alsatians and Labradors alike). As always, my good friend Susana Gimenez approved my choice for conversational topics with the feature of her July issue entitled “How to Dress your Dog for Winter.”
As I complained long distance about the winter to my mother, and then as she reminded me of how much I had already complained during the Argentine summer, I tried to make a list of all the positives that an Argentine winter actually had to offer. And not just any Argentine winter, but this very Argentine winter, which offered us Mundial, or World Cup, festivities galore. One day on the number 132 bus, I had delighted in hearing a group of uniformed school children commenting on the fact that this year was the year of “White and Blue”, or, in other words, quite a year for Argentine patriotism. With a two hundredth birthday having been celebrated in May, the country now eagerly looked towards the hopeful team carefully selected and organized by perhaps one of the greatest players and Argentinean personalities of all time, Diego Maradona himself.
The mental preparations for the World Cup were no small chore, and it took quite some time for the Argentine people to get not only their white and blue ready, but also their vocal chords, their physical fitness levels (with which they would fight the crowds to the front of the pantallas gigantes, or giant television screens), and their complete conviction that Argentina would win and bring home the shiny golden cup. These measures took only a few months in the eyes of an extranjera, like me, whilst to the porteños it had been a four year wait. An advertisement campaign released on Argentine national television comically highlighted the passion and emotion prevalent in the majority of the country when the national team stepped up to compete against another country in the Mundial. “If their team loses,” one actor posing in the street commented, “they just go home and weep. No one speaks for days.” I suppose I took this advertisement too light-heartedly.
When Tevez, Messi and friends said their final goodbyes to the chance of bringing home the oro, or gold, against Germany, I did not hear a peep out of the majority of the city for hours. For what is normally a hectic and at times overbearingly loud ciudad, Capital Federal ever so uncharacteristically wrapped itself up in a blanket and shut itself up in a corner, avoiding conversation and contact with anyone or anything. I comforted the city in any and every way that I could, by engaging anyone I found in small talk about other topics. “Forget Messi’s fatigued final performance for now,” I encouraged, “and concentrate on finding that perfect overcoat for your dog to greet the winter with open paws!" (N.B. Dog coats are so popular in Buenos Aires that they are not solely modeled by lap or handbag canines, they are even favored by Alsatians and Labradors alike). As always, my good friend Susana Gimenez approved my choice for conversational topics with the feature of her July issue entitled “How to Dress your Dog for Winter.”
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Feliz Bicentenario – Avoiding the Churro and Other Impossibilities
As thousands of damp patriots congregate on the wide and never-ending 9 de Julio Avenue, I sit, bundled up in my small Almagro apartment, contemplating the last 200 years of Argentina’s history and the dreadfully un-fair tempting and taunting nature of churros y chocolate.
When last Thursday came around, I did not permit the tears to fall down my face as mis padres waved goodbye from their radio taxi window. I stood waving in my pink wellington boots and all of a sudden felt eighteen again. I was rapidly reminded of my first day at the University of Warwick. The fear of the unfamiliar took over as we were showed around Arthur Vick hall, my new home for the year of 2005. In fact, I recalled even begging my mother not to “leave me” there. For this, I mentally apologized to my mother and did not let the same immature sentiments leave my mind and exit my body via my mouth.
For an amazingly lengthy two weeks, I had turned into a tourist again and joined my mother and father on jolly jaunts around not only El Capital Federal, but also around the vast and diverse country of Argentina. A swift yet overdue escape to La Pampa had soothed my soul and re-kindled my amicable relationship with caballos, (or, horses). We trekked through acres upon acres of desolate and tranquil countryside on horseback which resembled nothing of my last riding experience - I was twelve and was paired with a rather sleepy, poncho-dressed North American horse named Lance. Lance and I were getting along perfectly well until he made the rash decision to gallop up a hill. I never forgave him, and recall walking the rest of the trail through that novel ranch in Massachusetts, turning my head to the side occasionally, only to glower at my chosen horse for his terrible choice. This year, at the ripe old age of 22, I was ready to put my differences with Lance aside and make friends with a new horse. Pelu, a beautiful cream-colored horse, was assigned to be mine for the weekend and we trotted along together, stopping occasionally (dare I say rather abruptly at times) to snatch a small bush from the soil to chew as we walked.
We soon bid farewell to our friends at Las Viboras, (also the ex-estancia of a rather important Argentine governor) and boarded a plane to the Cataratas, (or, waterfalls) of Iguazu where we met the same falls which, upon seeing in the early twentieth century, former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt exclaimed “Poor Niagara!” That plane trip, I was told a week later by one of my students, is “one of the most dangerous plane journeys you can take.” “Oh really?” I mumbled, in a tone which would make most people stop and move on to other less fatal conversation topics. “Yes. Really.” (N.B. most people except him that is…) He continued “Two years ago… In fact, it was probably last year. Maybe even this year… A plane on its way to Iguazu city crashed and fell into the falls.” I sat with my mouth open. The silence must have lasted about a minute (which, I will have you know is a long time sans-noise in MY English classes).
Shortly after my parents departed Buenos Aires, I decided to be kind to my body and digestive system by saying goodbye to my factura (or, pastry) friends and all the fresh pastas and pizzas of the city. It was as if, after two full weeks of lavish and at times rather counter-productive feasting, all the enzymes in my stomach were chanting “No more baked goods! No more baked goods!” I decided to listen to my inner-enzyme-voice and treat my stomach with only fresh vegetables and proteins. Unfortunately for myself and my inherent lack of willpower, the bicentenario celebrations fell out of the sky and into my sight, particularly in the form of “the most patriotic and typical food you can eat on the long bicentenario weekend “ (said, another student of mine, who I will thank later for upsetting my enzymes), also known as churros. Oh yes, and don’t forget the bucket of chocolate caliente (or, hot chocolate) that is served along side these fried-dough twists, which (only in Argentina) are filled with heavenly Dulce de Leche.
I promptly purchased my monthly Susana magazine in an attempt to distract my sweet tooth from such devilish fried pastry endeavors. Susana, is the young and popular media creation of Argentina’s it-woman, Susana Gimenez. I happen to love her, if not for her fabulous figure, explicit botox work and fashion sense, but for her pursuit and publication of feminist-related feature stories that can be found immediately after the magazine’s monthly fashion pages, filled with clothes, shoes and accessories, all modeled only by...herself. To my utter dismay, as I turned to the Susana Cocina (or, kitchen) section, in hope of finding new light and fresh dishes that only the Susanas of the world could provide me with, I came face-to-face with a photograph of my Hispanic doughnut nemesis, and a “quick and easy recipe” alongside it . To add insult to injury, Susana mockingly wrote:
Para un verdadero festejo del 25 de Mayo, no puede faltar un tradicional ritual argentino: una taza de espumante de chocolate caliente acompañada por unos tentadores churros y dulce de leche. Feliz Bicentenario!
It took me precisely 35 seconds to ask my friend Tatiana to join me in celebrating the nation’s history, during which I would make peace with my fried and sugary nemesis. After all, who am I to sweep under the carpet what Susana would have wanted?
When last Thursday came around, I did not permit the tears to fall down my face as mis padres waved goodbye from their radio taxi window. I stood waving in my pink wellington boots and all of a sudden felt eighteen again. I was rapidly reminded of my first day at the University of Warwick. The fear of the unfamiliar took over as we were showed around Arthur Vick hall, my new home for the year of 2005. In fact, I recalled even begging my mother not to “leave me” there. For this, I mentally apologized to my mother and did not let the same immature sentiments leave my mind and exit my body via my mouth.
For an amazingly lengthy two weeks, I had turned into a tourist again and joined my mother and father on jolly jaunts around not only El Capital Federal, but also around the vast and diverse country of Argentina. A swift yet overdue escape to La Pampa had soothed my soul and re-kindled my amicable relationship with caballos, (or, horses). We trekked through acres upon acres of desolate and tranquil countryside on horseback which resembled nothing of my last riding experience - I was twelve and was paired with a rather sleepy, poncho-dressed North American horse named Lance. Lance and I were getting along perfectly well until he made the rash decision to gallop up a hill. I never forgave him, and recall walking the rest of the trail through that novel ranch in Massachusetts, turning my head to the side occasionally, only to glower at my chosen horse for his terrible choice. This year, at the ripe old age of 22, I was ready to put my differences with Lance aside and make friends with a new horse. Pelu, a beautiful cream-colored horse, was assigned to be mine for the weekend and we trotted along together, stopping occasionally (dare I say rather abruptly at times) to snatch a small bush from the soil to chew as we walked.
We soon bid farewell to our friends at Las Viboras, (also the ex-estancia of a rather important Argentine governor) and boarded a plane to the Cataratas, (or, waterfalls) of Iguazu where we met the same falls which, upon seeing in the early twentieth century, former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt exclaimed “Poor Niagara!” That plane trip, I was told a week later by one of my students, is “one of the most dangerous plane journeys you can take.” “Oh really?” I mumbled, in a tone which would make most people stop and move on to other less fatal conversation topics. “Yes. Really.” (N.B. most people except him that is…) He continued “Two years ago… In fact, it was probably last year. Maybe even this year… A plane on its way to Iguazu city crashed and fell into the falls.” I sat with my mouth open. The silence must have lasted about a minute (which, I will have you know is a long time sans-noise in MY English classes).
Shortly after my parents departed Buenos Aires, I decided to be kind to my body and digestive system by saying goodbye to my factura (or, pastry) friends and all the fresh pastas and pizzas of the city. It was as if, after two full weeks of lavish and at times rather counter-productive feasting, all the enzymes in my stomach were chanting “No more baked goods! No more baked goods!” I decided to listen to my inner-enzyme-voice and treat my stomach with only fresh vegetables and proteins. Unfortunately for myself and my inherent lack of willpower, the bicentenario celebrations fell out of the sky and into my sight, particularly in the form of “the most patriotic and typical food you can eat on the long bicentenario weekend “ (said, another student of mine, who I will thank later for upsetting my enzymes), also known as churros. Oh yes, and don’t forget the bucket of chocolate caliente (or, hot chocolate) that is served along side these fried-dough twists, which (only in Argentina) are filled with heavenly Dulce de Leche.
I promptly purchased my monthly Susana magazine in an attempt to distract my sweet tooth from such devilish fried pastry endeavors. Susana, is the young and popular media creation of Argentina’s it-woman, Susana Gimenez. I happen to love her, if not for her fabulous figure, explicit botox work and fashion sense, but for her pursuit and publication of feminist-related feature stories that can be found immediately after the magazine’s monthly fashion pages, filled with clothes, shoes and accessories, all modeled only by...herself. To my utter dismay, as I turned to the Susana Cocina (or, kitchen) section, in hope of finding new light and fresh dishes that only the Susanas of the world could provide me with, I came face-to-face with a photograph of my Hispanic doughnut nemesis, and a “quick and easy recipe” alongside it . To add insult to injury, Susana mockingly wrote:
Para un verdadero festejo del 25 de Mayo, no puede faltar un tradicional ritual argentino: una taza de espumante de chocolate caliente acompañada por unos tentadores churros y dulce de leche. Feliz Bicentenario!
It took me precisely 35 seconds to ask my friend Tatiana to join me in celebrating the nation’s history, during which I would make peace with my fried and sugary nemesis. After all, who am I to sweep under the carpet what Susana would have wanted?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Ghosts of Monserrat – Emotion and Over-Due Justice for Thousands of Argentineans
Business and social life go on as usual in autumnal Buenos Aires. The dog walkers pace, the telephones ring, the cafes fill with coffee-fiends and mothers drag children to school in their starched uniforms. However, a very unfamiliar chill swept through the city this week and not only signified the changing of the seasons, but the changing too of the lives of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, as the gavel of justice hit its stand with a loud bang on Tuesday, the 20th of April, 2010. The piercing sound exceeded the walls of the old gymnasium in Buenos Aires where a “makeshift” courtroom had been set up to try the criminals of the “The Dirty War”; a label, used only by foreigners, affirmed ex-militante popular Rolando Lapidus, over a late Argentinean dinner on Monday. “If I go and attack that person on the street”, he commented as he pointed out of the window towards a pedestrian, “it is not war. It is terrorism.” He continued, “What began in Argentina in 1976 was not a war. It was state enforced terrorism.”
On Monday morning at precisely 9am, I trekked back down the long road “Chile” on my way to the subte (or, underground). Recovering from the astonishingly early English lesson I had just delivered in the Montserrat home of one of my students, I walked slowly, looking at the pavement as I walked, trying desperately to wake-up and pull myself together after the anything-but-restful weekend I had just experienced – that weekend which had, unfortunately for myself and all those other Monday-haters out there, abruptly terminated to the obnoxious tone of an alarm clock. As I walked I gazed at the recently washed pavement stones, wondering to myself why people seem to be fond of washing the pavement outside their house or building every morning with washing-up liquid. Suddenly, I woke up as I came to a dramatic halt outside of Chile 850. Three pavement stones had been covered over with heavy scarlet colored plaques. The plaques frowned up at me as I bent over them to read their inscriptions:
Aqui vivió Susana Elena Pedrini
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Jose Daniel Bronzel
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Cecilia Podolsky
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Upon reading, I paused, horrified as I realized the plaques honored three of approximately 30 000 men, women and children abducted, tortured and more often than not killed during the military dictatorship of 1976-1983. Here I stood, outside Chile 850, where 34 years ago, three innocents were snatched and “disappeared” and now live only as memories of Argentina’s macabre past. A past still so fresh, that a certain hesitance in many is still prevalent when asked to discuss and evaluate what happened behind closed doors over three decades ago. After five minutes of staring I was pushed out of the way by a mad dash of brief cases: “Permiso,” “Cuidate eh!” and “Ay, por favor!” were some of the exclamations I heard from busy civilians on their way to work. For many of these busy business men and women, I could only assume that this was a regular route. A route which involves plowing down Chile and stepping over a morose part of their nation’s contemporary history.
I eventually went on my way, however felt somewhat heavier and more down-trodden than I had been upon leaving my student’s hogar, or home. I threw myself into research as soon as I reached my house on Hipolito Yrigogen and my spirits were obviously not lifted as I ploughed through page upon page of “desaparecidos.” Backgrounds and professions separated them, but their abduction, torture and assassination meant that they all shared a common denominator. The desaparecidos were sent to a number of hidden locations and work camps where they all faced their fate as those brave enough to oppose state evoked censorship, violence and terrorism.
I quickly came across the names of those “desaparecidos” who I envision every time I make my way down La Avenida Chile. Jose Daniel Bronzel and his wife Susana Elena Pedrini, both aged twenty-eight, were forced from their home on the thirteenth of July, 1976. Cecilia Podolsky de Bronzel, Jose Daniel’s mother, aged 51, was also abducted on that morbid Tuesday in el Gran Capital. Jose Daniel and Susana were both architects and professors at La Universidad de Buenos Ares. When the three were taken, Susana was one and a half months pregnant. The amount of information on the trio was limited, however the desaparecidos database affirmed that their lives were taken on the twentieth of August, 1976 in “La Masacre de Fatima.” Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia were three of thirty illegally-detained prisoners who were drugged and shot by two Argentine police officers in the Buenos Aires province of Fatima. Those culpable for this massacre were sentenced to life imprisonment on the eleventh of July, 2008.
This week, the last military president of Argentina’s darkest period was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. Reynaldo Benito Bignone, aged 82 sat solemnly in court as he and six other former military officials and police officers were tried for the torture and murder of a vast number of innocents. As the trial went on, the audience sat watching, the vast majority of whom held up pictures of their friends and family members who had been disappeared during Bignone’s reign. An eerie silence and strong-willed persistence oozed from the spectator section of the courtroom. Bignone was not present during the sentencing, but those who held pictures of their loved ones cried out as justice rang through the old gymnasium, almost three decades after those closest to them had been taken. I could not help but think of Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia as I watched the dramatic scenes of the trial on the television. For Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia who died under the rule of Videla, and for the thousands of families still grieving, I quietly thanked the judge whose gavel, that day brought relief to thousands.
On Monday morning at precisely 9am, I trekked back down the long road “Chile” on my way to the subte (or, underground). Recovering from the astonishingly early English lesson I had just delivered in the Montserrat home of one of my students, I walked slowly, looking at the pavement as I walked, trying desperately to wake-up and pull myself together after the anything-but-restful weekend I had just experienced – that weekend which had, unfortunately for myself and all those other Monday-haters out there, abruptly terminated to the obnoxious tone of an alarm clock. As I walked I gazed at the recently washed pavement stones, wondering to myself why people seem to be fond of washing the pavement outside their house or building every morning with washing-up liquid. Suddenly, I woke up as I came to a dramatic halt outside of Chile 850. Three pavement stones had been covered over with heavy scarlet colored plaques. The plaques frowned up at me as I bent over them to read their inscriptions:
Aqui vivió Susana Elena Pedrini
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Jose Daniel Bronzel
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Cecilia Podolsky
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Upon reading, I paused, horrified as I realized the plaques honored three of approximately 30 000 men, women and children abducted, tortured and more often than not killed during the military dictatorship of 1976-1983. Here I stood, outside Chile 850, where 34 years ago, three innocents were snatched and “disappeared” and now live only as memories of Argentina’s macabre past. A past still so fresh, that a certain hesitance in many is still prevalent when asked to discuss and evaluate what happened behind closed doors over three decades ago. After five minutes of staring I was pushed out of the way by a mad dash of brief cases: “Permiso,” “Cuidate eh!” and “Ay, por favor!” were some of the exclamations I heard from busy civilians on their way to work. For many of these busy business men and women, I could only assume that this was a regular route. A route which involves plowing down Chile and stepping over a morose part of their nation’s contemporary history.
I eventually went on my way, however felt somewhat heavier and more down-trodden than I had been upon leaving my student’s hogar, or home. I threw myself into research as soon as I reached my house on Hipolito Yrigogen and my spirits were obviously not lifted as I ploughed through page upon page of “desaparecidos.” Backgrounds and professions separated them, but their abduction, torture and assassination meant that they all shared a common denominator. The desaparecidos were sent to a number of hidden locations and work camps where they all faced their fate as those brave enough to oppose state evoked censorship, violence and terrorism.
I quickly came across the names of those “desaparecidos” who I envision every time I make my way down La Avenida Chile. Jose Daniel Bronzel and his wife Susana Elena Pedrini, both aged twenty-eight, were forced from their home on the thirteenth of July, 1976. Cecilia Podolsky de Bronzel, Jose Daniel’s mother, aged 51, was also abducted on that morbid Tuesday in el Gran Capital. Jose Daniel and Susana were both architects and professors at La Universidad de Buenos Ares. When the three were taken, Susana was one and a half months pregnant. The amount of information on the trio was limited, however the desaparecidos database affirmed that their lives were taken on the twentieth of August, 1976 in “La Masacre de Fatima.” Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia were three of thirty illegally-detained prisoners who were drugged and shot by two Argentine police officers in the Buenos Aires province of Fatima. Those culpable for this massacre were sentenced to life imprisonment on the eleventh of July, 2008.
This week, the last military president of Argentina’s darkest period was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. Reynaldo Benito Bignone, aged 82 sat solemnly in court as he and six other former military officials and police officers were tried for the torture and murder of a vast number of innocents. As the trial went on, the audience sat watching, the vast majority of whom held up pictures of their friends and family members who had been disappeared during Bignone’s reign. An eerie silence and strong-willed persistence oozed from the spectator section of the courtroom. Bignone was not present during the sentencing, but those who held pictures of their loved ones cried out as justice rang through the old gymnasium, almost three decades after those closest to them had been taken. I could not help but think of Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia as I watched the dramatic scenes of the trial on the television. For Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia who died under the rule of Videla, and for the thousands of families still grieving, I quietly thanked the judge whose gavel, that day brought relief to thousands.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Passion and the Parilla: Replacing Sleep with Meat, Pronunciation and Charlas
My lack of publishing in the last several weeks can be blamed upon long bus rides, an ever-increasing teaching schedule and our continuing quest for the best parilla (or, barbeque restaurant) in Buenos Aires. These factors, amongst other things have kept us as busy as bees ever since we said farewell to CELTA and entered the real world of trabajo (or, work) in the Paris of the South. A slow week of job hunting post-course gave us time to disfrutar (or, enjoy) what we had been missing in that month of teaching preparation. I greeted Castellano with open arms and began throwing myself back into conversations with locals and newly-made porteño friends. A night well-spent preparing empanadas with a wonderful Argentinean friend and her family would set high standards for the rest of our stay here in Buenos Aires. After all, what could possibly be better than an evening overflowing with empanadas de Jamon y Queso, wonderful wine and delightful company in a beautiful family house tucked neatly behind the hustle and bustle of Avenida Rivadavia?
As I write, families rush to and from the fishmongers, the bakery and the fruit and vegetable stand to complete the final touches for a well-deserved Easter weekend. When they first arrived on the shelves in the supermarkets, the mountains of huevos de chocolate (or, chocolate eggs) made me somewhat nostalgic for home and Easter egg hunts held in the garden when I was ten. The build up to this weekend, has been, in very colloquial terms, “a long time coming.” In the past three weeks, I have been exposed to the "real" city of Buenos Aires and have come to know “un monton” (or, a lot) of wonderful individuals. As everyone is unique, each student of mine has different reasons for wanting to learn or study English. Some are starting from scratch or topping up their prior knowledge of the language, whilst others are re-visiting an idiom that was left behind at the school gates almost twenty years ago. An objective which, perhaps was my favorite of the pile, was explained to me over a mate (or, Argentine herbal tea) sitting around the kitchen table in a family home in Parque Chacabuco.
On a regular Tuesday morning, I received a call from my employer informing me that I had a new student, an eleven year old nena (or, girl). “This will be a challenge,” I thought to myself as I duly noted the contact details down with a poor excuse for a ball-point pen. Since packing my bags and heading toward the path of teaching, I had been meeting new students who were only above the age of 20. Therefore, I was excited to see the difference in the approach to learning in this little one. I arrived at the front door and was greeted by a smiling mother and daughter who ushered me in to the dimly-lit kitchen where a man who I could only assume was the father of the family was seated, sipping on a mate, waiting to give me the facts in regards to what he wanted for his daughter out of such lessons. Naturally, the conversation was conducted solely in Castellano and so I grasped in the air for words to present myself as a confident, knowledgeable English teacher. As my new student sat, beaming away, watching my every move, her father delved into his (what I could only assume was a pre-pared) speech about what he needed to see as a result of paying me a monthly fee. We chatted, and I learnt about his biggest pet-peeve “in life,” as he labeled it. “In life, there is nothing worse than an Argentine speaking English,” he stated. I laughed nervously, and asked him to elaborate as I was not sure if I had heard him correctly. “Speaking English is one thing. Speaking English in an Argentinean accent is another.” He proceeded to explain to me that he wanted his daughter to have an accent like mine and so if this goal was not achieved, we would have to come together and discuss matters again. I nodded solemnly and in the corner of my eye saw my little student mirroring my nodding action. An hour later, I took my leave of the family home in Chacabuco and began to rack my brains for ways around the inevitable presence of a thick Argentinean accent in my little student.
7am starts would not deter us from immersing ourselves in Argentine dinner culture (which, I must add never really “takes off” before 11pm). The boyfriend of that same afore mentioned Argentinean friend offered to take us out to what he referred to as “the best Parilla in the city.” As we arranged our feast over the phone he promised us that we would eat early, as after all, our teaching hours did not correspond well with the Buenos Aires nightlife. As 11pm rolled around, we were still sat enjoying charlas with his family in their apartment on Callao. I shamefully let the British in me shine through and requested that we make for the restaurant as time for sleep was gradually ticking away. We waited outside “La Cholita” for a table for three, which was heaving with patrons hungry for a quintessentially Argentinean dining experience. After fifteen minutes we were rushed to our table and before I knew it, we were sipping on Malbec and commencing our meal with a delectable provoletta (or, grilled provolone cheese topped with grilled onions, tomatoes and fresh olives). We doubtfully ordered the “Parilla for 2” from the vast menu and discussed for ten or fifteen minutes the fact that we had probably under-ordered. I therefore prepared myself for a mere sniff of steak as I sat looking at the two hungry boys in their early twenties on the opposite side of the dinner table. I then proceeded to eat my hat when a smorgasbord of meat nearly as long as the table was plopped in the centre by the frantic portena waiting on us and silently scolded myself for thinking that there would not be enough food for us all. An array of asado, bife de chorizo, chorizo, ojo de bife and sweet breads amongst other unidentifiable parts of the cow steamed in front of us as we tucked in to sample what we had been waiting for since our arrival on January 1st. Obviously a platter of meat and papas fritas of such a size takes time to consume, and so at 1am I gave up on the idea of sleep and called for another bottle of Malbec. After all, rushing home on a full stomach without taking the time to reflect upon what we had just devoured would have been very un-Argentinean.
As I write, families rush to and from the fishmongers, the bakery and the fruit and vegetable stand to complete the final touches for a well-deserved Easter weekend. When they first arrived on the shelves in the supermarkets, the mountains of huevos de chocolate (or, chocolate eggs) made me somewhat nostalgic for home and Easter egg hunts held in the garden when I was ten. The build up to this weekend, has been, in very colloquial terms, “a long time coming.” In the past three weeks, I have been exposed to the "real" city of Buenos Aires and have come to know “un monton” (or, a lot) of wonderful individuals. As everyone is unique, each student of mine has different reasons for wanting to learn or study English. Some are starting from scratch or topping up their prior knowledge of the language, whilst others are re-visiting an idiom that was left behind at the school gates almost twenty years ago. An objective which, perhaps was my favorite of the pile, was explained to me over a mate (or, Argentine herbal tea) sitting around the kitchen table in a family home in Parque Chacabuco.
On a regular Tuesday morning, I received a call from my employer informing me that I had a new student, an eleven year old nena (or, girl). “This will be a challenge,” I thought to myself as I duly noted the contact details down with a poor excuse for a ball-point pen. Since packing my bags and heading toward the path of teaching, I had been meeting new students who were only above the age of 20. Therefore, I was excited to see the difference in the approach to learning in this little one. I arrived at the front door and was greeted by a smiling mother and daughter who ushered me in to the dimly-lit kitchen where a man who I could only assume was the father of the family was seated, sipping on a mate, waiting to give me the facts in regards to what he wanted for his daughter out of such lessons. Naturally, the conversation was conducted solely in Castellano and so I grasped in the air for words to present myself as a confident, knowledgeable English teacher. As my new student sat, beaming away, watching my every move, her father delved into his (what I could only assume was a pre-pared) speech about what he needed to see as a result of paying me a monthly fee. We chatted, and I learnt about his biggest pet-peeve “in life,” as he labeled it. “In life, there is nothing worse than an Argentine speaking English,” he stated. I laughed nervously, and asked him to elaborate as I was not sure if I had heard him correctly. “Speaking English is one thing. Speaking English in an Argentinean accent is another.” He proceeded to explain to me that he wanted his daughter to have an accent like mine and so if this goal was not achieved, we would have to come together and discuss matters again. I nodded solemnly and in the corner of my eye saw my little student mirroring my nodding action. An hour later, I took my leave of the family home in Chacabuco and began to rack my brains for ways around the inevitable presence of a thick Argentinean accent in my little student.
7am starts would not deter us from immersing ourselves in Argentine dinner culture (which, I must add never really “takes off” before 11pm). The boyfriend of that same afore mentioned Argentinean friend offered to take us out to what he referred to as “the best Parilla in the city.” As we arranged our feast over the phone he promised us that we would eat early, as after all, our teaching hours did not correspond well with the Buenos Aires nightlife. As 11pm rolled around, we were still sat enjoying charlas with his family in their apartment on Callao. I shamefully let the British in me shine through and requested that we make for the restaurant as time for sleep was gradually ticking away. We waited outside “La Cholita” for a table for three, which was heaving with patrons hungry for a quintessentially Argentinean dining experience. After fifteen minutes we were rushed to our table and before I knew it, we were sipping on Malbec and commencing our meal with a delectable provoletta (or, grilled provolone cheese topped with grilled onions, tomatoes and fresh olives). We doubtfully ordered the “Parilla for 2” from the vast menu and discussed for ten or fifteen minutes the fact that we had probably under-ordered. I therefore prepared myself for a mere sniff of steak as I sat looking at the two hungry boys in their early twenties on the opposite side of the dinner table. I then proceeded to eat my hat when a smorgasbord of meat nearly as long as the table was plopped in the centre by the frantic portena waiting on us and silently scolded myself for thinking that there would not be enough food for us all. An array of asado, bife de chorizo, chorizo, ojo de bife and sweet breads amongst other unidentifiable parts of the cow steamed in front of us as we tucked in to sample what we had been waiting for since our arrival on January 1st. Obviously a platter of meat and papas fritas of such a size takes time to consume, and so at 1am I gave up on the idea of sleep and called for another bottle of Malbec. After all, rushing home on a full stomach without taking the time to reflect upon what we had just devoured would have been very un-Argentinean.
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