Saturday, November 19, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
reliving the scariest day of my life
email to my father
(no subject)
May 26 8:19AM
first off, i am COMPLETELY safe now. in cusco. about to take first hot shower in two weeks. then i wrote an explanation of yesterday, pòssibly scarier.
´"i spoke too soon. the stomach worsened and i wasnt abole to keep any
food or water down for 3 days. really scary. no hospital around. of
course the border is closed due to protestors, but i wanted to get to
peru asap for a good hospital. but we had to take this 9,5 hr refugee
style boat across the lake to puno. it was so crazy, they led a big
group of us down to a marshland, no dock, set up a immigrations
desk in the tulles and at 7am a boat showed up. all the while i was
tooo weak to lift my backpack couldnt even think, crying. THANK GOD there was a doctor in line by us who gavce me a pill and within an hour i kept down sips opf water, the first in 3 days, my mouth hurt from dehy,
then puffed rice and a half banana. it no longer felt like someone with
sharp fingernails was wringing out my stomach like a washcloth.
obviously still didnt feel great, but didnt think i was dying. 9.5 hrs
later we arive in puno, a city full of 10000 protestors. great. all
the roads are bloackad and stores closed. the protesters march by our
hostel about once an hour. but were safe in here and i feel completely
mostly better and am feeding myself. and have another one of those pills in case. ate a full pesto ravioli dinner and big breakfast and am feeling good. now we have to get out of this city. love you"
at immigrations in puno we had to bang on a metal opverhead for 10minut4es until they let us in. scary protestors, throwing stones, concrete. all day and night. all streets out of town blockaded. everyone said no way out. we climbed a huuuuge steep hill for over an hour in the 4000m altitude trying to see f we could walk out. got to the to p and were told we weer in unsafe area there was no way out and should turn around. found a group of police officers who we bribed to take their friends cars to take us out, but we had to pay kind of alot and convince them since it was likely their windows would be smashed. we drove off roading and around blockades, ducking. then we hit the real blockade of the main highway. they were going to let us out, saying there would be more cars on the other side then we saw the blockade moving they were running towards our two cars. then they were sprinting, throwing huge blocks of concrete. i thought we were going to die. the cops turning on the car and spun off into a country farm road well not a raod, but a path thing. we watched the protesters through the rear window still runninf towards us throwing the concrete and holding huge sticks. we drove on the dirt farm roads for about an hour, asking evey country person we saw where the roads we safe o get to juliaca, the next own where there would be buses to cusco. finally we made it to julicaca. got on a bus for 8hrs driving through a beautiful lightning storm, and got here to cusco, at 3am where we are safe, fed and my belly is well. no injuries. i honesly cant believe the amount of luck that was involved in this. but also feel we were very smart in the decision making, the protests were supposed to be worsening and the protestors had announced they wanted a few dead people. wouldnt an american death be a priz. going to tootle around cusco today and just relax and enjoy the feeling of being alive and healthy. then to sacred valley maybe in a couple days. train to macchu piccu on the 1st. . love you, em
so much
glad to be safe and feel me made some very good wuick decisions, helped with luck lovelovelove em
Monday, May 23, 2011
The chorus of Lake Titikaka is a quiet rhythm. The short gasps of lake water lapping up on the white sand coves, the repetitive crunch of gravel under my feet, my short breaths trying to grab more oxygen than the air will allow, a gust of wind here and there, and the occasional whine of a donkey echoing through the hills.
Sapphire blue water surrounds me as I walk alone across the spine of Isla del Sol, the deep and mysterious water plunging into underwater cities of gold and silver, filled with mermaids, or so the Incas thought. Cottonball clouds cling to the horsizon, framing the clear blue sky and strong sun. White capped mountains stand stong and wise in the distance, witnessing the world from the top.
The land is wrinkled by the terraces built by civilizations past, but holding up today and used daily by the 2000 indigenous people who still live here. Women in wide skirts, alpaca sweater schlep striped sacks of all colors up and down the hills through the day, calling to children in qeutchwa and commanding small herds of donkeys and sheep.
After three hours of hiking, well maybe 2 and a half hiking and a half hour of breaking, I reached the sacred rock, where the Incan mythology was apparently born. Someone told me if you touch it you can see the future. No apocalytptic psycic visions, but had lots of contemplations time and quiet moments just sitting and thinking about life and beauty.
Maya and I found some ruins that used to be a sacrifice ground, even had a sacrificial table.
We stayed the night on the less populated, untouristy side of the isand. No flushing toilets, little exlectricity, but inspiring calm.
Woke up the next morning before sunrise to hike the way back. Also woke to food poisoning. Tried to hike a shortcut used by the natives where you climb for an hour, apparently cutting of the unessacary switch backs and then just head downhill. Tbhe thing is i thought the word ´subir´just meant go up here, but in this context, they meant rockclimb up to the main trail. One step at a time, one breath at a time, the trail eventually arrived. One of the most laborious hours of my life, but I did cut off a good hour. Glad to arrive at the more populated and more comfortable side of the island as the stomach aches began to take over.
Spent the day lounging, trying to ignore stomach pains, and admiring the beauty of the Isla. Went out for a trout dinner for the third night in a row for about 3 US dollars with fresh incan mashed potaotes and quinoa soup. Unfortunatelty my mind was more excited than my stomach. No more details here, except that Im glad to be alive and well now and glad to be travelling with smart caring girls who speak spanish. Also glad to live near hospitals.
Packed up our things and hiked down the mountain past the ancient Incan fountain and got on a boat for Cocacabana. Ahora, estoy en Cocacabana.
Sapphire blue water surrounds me as I walk alone across the spine of Isla del Sol, the deep and mysterious water plunging into underwater cities of gold and silver, filled with mermaids, or so the Incas thought. Cottonball clouds cling to the horsizon, framing the clear blue sky and strong sun. White capped mountains stand stong and wise in the distance, witnessing the world from the top.
The land is wrinkled by the terraces built by civilizations past, but holding up today and used daily by the 2000 indigenous people who still live here. Women in wide skirts, alpaca sweater schlep striped sacks of all colors up and down the hills through the day, calling to children in qeutchwa and commanding small herds of donkeys and sheep.
After three hours of hiking, well maybe 2 and a half hiking and a half hour of breaking, I reached the sacred rock, where the Incan mythology was apparently born. Someone told me if you touch it you can see the future. No apocalytptic psycic visions, but had lots of contemplations time and quiet moments just sitting and thinking about life and beauty.
Maya and I found some ruins that used to be a sacrifice ground, even had a sacrificial table.
We stayed the night on the less populated, untouristy side of the isand. No flushing toilets, little exlectricity, but inspiring calm.
Woke up the next morning before sunrise to hike the way back. Also woke to food poisoning. Tried to hike a shortcut used by the natives where you climb for an hour, apparently cutting of the unessacary switch backs and then just head downhill. Tbhe thing is i thought the word ´subir´just meant go up here, but in this context, they meant rockclimb up to the main trail. One step at a time, one breath at a time, the trail eventually arrived. One of the most laborious hours of my life, but I did cut off a good hour. Glad to arrive at the more populated and more comfortable side of the island as the stomach aches began to take over.
Spent the day lounging, trying to ignore stomach pains, and admiring the beauty of the Isla. Went out for a trout dinner for the third night in a row for about 3 US dollars with fresh incan mashed potaotes and quinoa soup. Unfortunatelty my mind was more excited than my stomach. No more details here, except that Im glad to be alive and well now and glad to be travelling with smart caring girls who speak spanish. Also glad to live near hospitals.
Packed up our things and hiked down the mountain past the ancient Incan fountain and got on a boat for Cocacabana. Ahora, estoy en Cocacabana.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Lago Titikaka day 1
The plane flight from the jungle to La Paz, taxiride downtown, undetaining our passports from immigrations, a taxi back uptown, and 4 hr bus and a two hour open air boat ride across Lake Titikaka was nothing compared to the climb to our hostel on Isla del Sol.
The sun set behind us as we braved the daunting stairs up to the town area on the north side of Isla del Sol. One step at a time, one breath at a time. Keeping my eyes on my feet, stepping from stone to stone, focusing on the bright green grass between steps, focusing on the patches of white daisies framing the path, focusing on anything but my bodily senstaions: a combination of
. To the right of the path, a stream of water rushed down the hill, reminding me of the direction my body wanted to go, down. But I pushed against gravity and the 20 plus pounds on my back, knowing I could enjoy this picturesque ascent, when it was a descent. A young boy scampered up the hill in front of us, completely accustomed to running at 4280 meters. He offered us a sprig of natural mint to calm our panting.
We fell through the door of the hostel in a breathless pile, tossing our backpacks, bags and water bottles on the concrete floor. After ordering our things, we left to climb the hill further, the thought of warm food and a beer reeling us up the hill. Quinoa soup, stuffed trout from the lake, and banana leche juice at a candle lit table next to a woodburning stove made the crazy day worth it.
Woke in the middle of the night to a bright light outside the window. The moon had risen and cast a thick white beam across the sea size lake.
The sun set behind us as we braved the daunting stairs up to the town area on the north side of Isla del Sol. One step at a time, one breath at a time. Keeping my eyes on my feet, stepping from stone to stone, focusing on the bright green grass between steps, focusing on the patches of white daisies framing the path, focusing on anything but my bodily senstaions: a combination of
. To the right of the path, a stream of water rushed down the hill, reminding me of the direction my body wanted to go, down. But I pushed against gravity and the 20 plus pounds on my back, knowing I could enjoy this picturesque ascent, when it was a descent. A young boy scampered up the hill in front of us, completely accustomed to running at 4280 meters. He offered us a sprig of natural mint to calm our panting.
We fell through the door of the hostel in a breathless pile, tossing our backpacks, bags and water bottles on the concrete floor. After ordering our things, we left to climb the hill further, the thought of warm food and a beer reeling us up the hill. Quinoa soup, stuffed trout from the lake, and banana leche juice at a candle lit table next to a woodburning stove made the crazy day worth it.
Woke in the middle of the night to a bright light outside the window. The moon had risen and cast a thick white beam across the sea size lake.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
to the selva
After 3 days full of adventure and lacking on oxygen in La Paz, we are headed down a few thousand feet into the Bolivian Amazon (rurrenbaque). Going on a 3 day trek where we´ll swim with pink dolphins, see crocs, anacondas, macaws. Started malaria meds today, much more scared of bugbites than crocodile bites.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
la paz sin paz
A few beautiful days in northern argentina. We rented a car in salta and drove three hours through the bright orange andes to the wine region of cafayate, a tiny tiny town with good food, beauty and tranquility. the whole drive i wasnt sure if i was on mars, in zion national park or what. out of ths world geology. the town had gorgeous colonial buldings and catholic churches. i wish we could have stayed a week.
then on to san salvador jujuy for a night in a nice hostel where we rested and then took a bus to the little pueblo of tilcara. all adobe buildings and maybe 500 residents. in a valley surrounded by enormous orange moutains speckled with cacti, wild llamas and apparently not wild horses. traditional pena music came from a few small music places around the town square, llama burgers were availalable at the ´restaurant´-houses and the people were very kind. we stayed in a hostel with cabins and homemade jam breakfast situated on a hill over the tiny brown town. sunrise was unforgettable.
next, we took a bus to the bolivian border and thats when the stress started. the computers were down. three hours of waiting, we talked with travellers and watched hundreds of indigenous women dressed in big skirts, sweaters, widebrimmed hats and braided pig tails schlep huge sacks on their backs back and forth across the border. once we got across, we got the the bus station where we were harassed by every bus company and finally just got on one destined for tupiza. this bus ride was straight out of indiana jones. creek crossings, more dirt roads than paved, dirt tunnels just big enough for the bus, the whole time the bus was making wheezng noises, and of course it was night.
arrived in tupiza and decided what the heck we dont want to stay here lets keep going. bought bus tix for la paz for 830. the bus came at 1030. when it came it parked across the street in a patch of dirt and three men hopped out and started working on the engine. a couple of girls got off and said ´`good luck with that bus´`. we freaked out, should we get on or not, is this stupid? we got on. it was 18 hours of no sleep, bumps, but beautiful nighttime scenery. bright stars, big moon and huuuuuge mountains, tiny villages. we passed the famous potosi mines, saw the shacks the miners live in. we sat next to indigenous women carting sacks of herbs anmd things. they spoke a very different toungue of spanish, hard to understand.
finally got to la paz, this big city in a valley below snowy peaks of the andes. i have never seen a city like this. street venders everywhere. ill describe it more when ive seen more. chaotic but beautiful, smells of everything you could think of. street food, dirt, gas, pee. after being denied by two hostels we found one, then realized we had to go to immigrations as the people atthe border gave us the wrong stamp and we were currently illegal ´'invaders' as the man put it. after two hours, back and forth from window to window to copy center, and about 200 usdollars later we are legally here. keep in mind we hadnt eaten all day. we were all about to strangle the people at immagrations.
got soup, sandwhiches and pizza into the bellys and suddenly the color of la paz was brighter. went to bed, slept on a bed for the first time n a couple days. in fact, slept at all for the first time in a couple days. stayed in a cute hostel with courtyard. now were checking out to a cheaper hostel for backpackers. and going to go see the city and figure out how were getting to the amazon. mayah is going to brave the´20 hour busride across part of the death road, where usually you dont even have your own seat and people pee in bowls and toss it out the windeow. met someone yesterday whose friend was on it and the brakes went out. they fixed it with a shovel and a two by four. apparently they lose a couple of busloads a year. i am opting for the cheap flight. 80 dolars seems worth my life.
after the hell of the last 24 hours of waiting, bussing, not eating, waiting, arguing in spanish, i feel like la paz may bring a little more paz now that our bellies are full and we are legally here.
then on to san salvador jujuy for a night in a nice hostel where we rested and then took a bus to the little pueblo of tilcara. all adobe buildings and maybe 500 residents. in a valley surrounded by enormous orange moutains speckled with cacti, wild llamas and apparently not wild horses. traditional pena music came from a few small music places around the town square, llama burgers were availalable at the ´restaurant´-houses and the people were very kind. we stayed in a hostel with cabins and homemade jam breakfast situated on a hill over the tiny brown town. sunrise was unforgettable.
next, we took a bus to the bolivian border and thats when the stress started. the computers were down. three hours of waiting, we talked with travellers and watched hundreds of indigenous women dressed in big skirts, sweaters, widebrimmed hats and braided pig tails schlep huge sacks on their backs back and forth across the border. once we got across, we got the the bus station where we were harassed by every bus company and finally just got on one destined for tupiza. this bus ride was straight out of indiana jones. creek crossings, more dirt roads than paved, dirt tunnels just big enough for the bus, the whole time the bus was making wheezng noises, and of course it was night.
arrived in tupiza and decided what the heck we dont want to stay here lets keep going. bought bus tix for la paz for 830. the bus came at 1030. when it came it parked across the street in a patch of dirt and three men hopped out and started working on the engine. a couple of girls got off and said ´`good luck with that bus´`. we freaked out, should we get on or not, is this stupid? we got on. it was 18 hours of no sleep, bumps, but beautiful nighttime scenery. bright stars, big moon and huuuuuge mountains, tiny villages. we passed the famous potosi mines, saw the shacks the miners live in. we sat next to indigenous women carting sacks of herbs anmd things. they spoke a very different toungue of spanish, hard to understand.
finally got to la paz, this big city in a valley below snowy peaks of the andes. i have never seen a city like this. street venders everywhere. ill describe it more when ive seen more. chaotic but beautiful, smells of everything you could think of. street food, dirt, gas, pee. after being denied by two hostels we found one, then realized we had to go to immigrations as the people atthe border gave us the wrong stamp and we were currently illegal ´'invaders' as the man put it. after two hours, back and forth from window to window to copy center, and about 200 usdollars later we are legally here. keep in mind we hadnt eaten all day. we were all about to strangle the people at immagrations.
got soup, sandwhiches and pizza into the bellys and suddenly the color of la paz was brighter. went to bed, slept on a bed for the first time n a couple days. in fact, slept at all for the first time in a couple days. stayed in a cute hostel with courtyard. now were checking out to a cheaper hostel for backpackers. and going to go see the city and figure out how were getting to the amazon. mayah is going to brave the´20 hour busride across part of the death road, where usually you dont even have your own seat and people pee in bowls and toss it out the windeow. met someone yesterday whose friend was on it and the brakes went out. they fixed it with a shovel and a two by four. apparently they lose a couple of busloads a year. i am opting for the cheap flight. 80 dolars seems worth my life.
after the hell of the last 24 hours of waiting, bussing, not eating, waiting, arguing in spanish, i feel like la paz may bring a little more paz now that our bellies are full and we are legally here.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
the way to salta
After months of planning, googling, stressing and dreaming of travelling through south america, we finally stuffed our packs with too many clothes, books and premade juice packets into my dad´s backpack from the 80s, strapped them onto our backs and endured a 45minute long inferno between our apartments and retiro, the main train and bus station. Full subway, switching lines, 80 degrees, wearing a down jacket i couldnt remove, 2 backbacks, 2 bags. plastic bag breaks. natasha calls. natasha texts. cant find bus ticket. natasha calls again. need i say more? finally we ascended on the crowded escalator into the purgatory of retiro bus station, where robbers lurk around every corner apparently, but the heat was gone and i knew the pain was almost over. soon after we waited at the terminal freaking out when 10 minutes before departure our bus still was no where in sight, but rolled into view 5 minutes before six and left 3 minutes after. this aint SFO. the bus was heaven. air conditioning. leather seats reclining into beds. coffee, cold and hot water and movies literally within an arms length. food places on my lap every couple hours. i could get used to executive class.
i woke up this morning in the same utopian bus seat, plus a window seat watching the province of Tucuman pass by. thicks bushes, shrubs, cacti, oaks and wierd looking trees out of the lorax make the hills look like alligator skin, rolling bumpily off into the andes, which suddenly jut up behind this bucolic haven. its out of a painting. wild horses run alongside the bus, cowboys on horses herd small groups of cows. scattered small farms of corn and other vergetables pass by, but mostly its just wild plant life. occoasionally we pass over clear, rocky rivers, forrsts (literally forests) of sunflowers. some fields are butter yellow, others a bright mustard, with strange spindly cacti reaching out of the ground like the gnarled green plastic witch hands seen on front porches around halloween. spooky.
the more i look out the window thr more i realize how varied this place is. some places are like jungly, some fields, and the colors are constantly changing deep red grasses, bright yellows, every shade of green. the lack of rhythm and rhyme to the mixture of all these landscapes puts them together in a most perfect pattern of randomness. some fields have a single flourishing oak surrounded by only grass for acres.
a mass of thick, pillowy clouds casts a sleepy shadow over it all and i roll over in my cushy chair for a nap.
i woke up this morning in the same utopian bus seat, plus a window seat watching the province of Tucuman pass by. thicks bushes, shrubs, cacti, oaks and wierd looking trees out of the lorax make the hills look like alligator skin, rolling bumpily off into the andes, which suddenly jut up behind this bucolic haven. its out of a painting. wild horses run alongside the bus, cowboys on horses herd small groups of cows. scattered small farms of corn and other vergetables pass by, but mostly its just wild plant life. occoasionally we pass over clear, rocky rivers, forrsts (literally forests) of sunflowers. some fields are butter yellow, others a bright mustard, with strange spindly cacti reaching out of the ground like the gnarled green plastic witch hands seen on front porches around halloween. spooky.
the more i look out the window thr more i realize how varied this place is. some places are like jungly, some fields, and the colors are constantly changing deep red grasses, bright yellows, every shade of green. the lack of rhythm and rhyme to the mixture of all these landscapes puts them together in a most perfect pattern of randomness. some fields have a single flourishing oak surrounded by only grass for acres.
a mass of thick, pillowy clouds casts a sleepy shadow over it all and i roll over in my cushy chair for a nap.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Agridulce (bittersweet)
After the three months in the city that really sleeps; putting off dinner till 10, drinks till 1, and sleep until well into the next morning. After kissing more people in a day than I normally kiss in a year (on the cheek, don't worry mom, I still don't have herpes). After squinting away from uninvited besos from hombres and learning to push them away. After the imperfect subjunctive. After the irregular verbs. After steak stuffed with bacon and prunes. After declaring myself flexitarian, then redeclaring my vegetarian. After accidentlly telling my host mom I was pregnant (embarazada = pregnant in spanish). After dinner dates out worthy of reality TV air time. After sipping mate with poverty. After the legendary Malbeca wine, perhaps more legendary fernet, and defintely most legenday, absinthe. After bananas smothered in dulce de leche, and ice cream in dulce de leche, alfajores filled with dulce de leche, facturas with dulce de leche, and dulce de leche flavored flan topped with more dulce de leche. After the smells: fresh facturas, homemade pesto, the leather couch, the sidewalk, smog. After a glimpse of the barren Andes and a sip of tranquil Urguguay. After Subtes, buses and taxis. After oral exams. After feeling Iguazu Falls fall on top of me. After waking up to instant coffee and birthday cake. After going to sleep on a full stomach. After the noises; all the god damn noises: hammers, screams, drunk girls laughing outside the club, jackhammers, the horse opera behind my apartment, the boliche behind my apartment. After everyone: nancy, claudio, miriam, marlene, julian, little julian, cuca, gonzalo, uriel, martin, denise, bocha and malba, euge, andres. paola, maje, poala and itamar. After a three and a half months studying abroad in Buenos Aires, here I am at the end. But we all know that the end is only the beginning, right? I hope so.
When I came here a few months ago, I was Emma, age 20, a girl from a small town in California. And after all the afters, I'm still Emma, and still 20 years old (damnit), but I'm different. I've seen, heard, discussed and thought about things I would never see, hear, discuss or think about back home. I've been stretched, twisted and pushed way outside my box, and now I don't even know what my box is. And should I even have a box? Hmm. I'm not trying to get all metaphysical here, but really, this has been awesome, difficult, wonderful, and trying, and I will obviously carry this place, these people and these experiences through the rest of my life.
And the end is obviously on the the begining considering I get on a 22 hour bus headed roughly toward the fine nation of Bolivia.
After all the kisses
After learning some about us as a species, and more about me as a person.
Monday, May 2, 2011
iguazu
I look up into a curtain of water, plummeting over 250ft into a chaotic white abyss just a few feet in front of me. My face, hair, shirt, leggings, all are already drenched. All around is just white, white, white. I feel like a helpless ant under a faucet. The roaring water relentlessly showers us from all directions, paying no care to my high pitched screams of "enough!"
That's when I remember the water isn't coming from a hose, a water park ride, or any human controlled pump device for that matter. I'm in a speed boat directly below Iguazu Falls, and there obviously is no off handle. The boat driver must have messed up, we shouldn't be this close. Back up, back up! Death seems imminent. I think of the faces of my family, thank god for a blessed life and ..... VROOOOM he guns it into reverse! The shower becomes a spray, and quickly reduces to a calm mist. The driver turns the boat around and we head back to the dock. Sopping yet safe. But absolutely sopping.
Iguazu Falls is apparently one the the 7 natural wonders of the world. This aquatic masterpiece wasn't dreamed up by architects, drawn into detailed plans and constructed by crews. Mama nature did all of it: the 1.7 mile edge divided into 275 separate falls, the breath and umbrella-taking Garganta del Diablo (Devil's Throat) where about half of the river's flow is concentrated in a narrow, U-shaped gorge 700-meter-long, and the breathtaking beauty from so many angles.
We hiked the upper trail along the top of the falls, the long bridges connecting islands that finally brings you right to the top if Garganta del Diablo, hiked the lower trail along the bottom of the falls and then got in a speed boat and did this crazy boat ride into the falls. And to think I used to be too scared to ride Disneyand's Splash Mountain...
The experience of Iguazu was like nothing I've ever seen/done/felt. The feeling of being completely awestruck with the planet Earth, mother nature and the beauty of life that I get every time I look at waterfalls, combined with thinking I was going to die for about 30 seconds, combined with seeing a toucan made for quite the experience. Pheeeew!
Saturday, April 30, 2011
in the selva
Butterflies like confetti. Surrounded by dense jungle - green vines, trees, leaves twisting together - with the occasional pop of firework like flower, red, pink, yellow. And the falls. The falls. The falls are like. like nothing i´ve seen before. can´t make a metaphor. good thing i can load pictures in a couple days.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
heading to the selva!
From the concrete jungle to the jungle jungle. About to hop on a bus for a few hours (20ish!) headed for Iguazu Falls. Be back Monday morning.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Feria del Libro
When a guy friend from Argentina told me that a big book fair was coming to the exhibition hall down the block from my apartment a little over a month ago, I didn't exactly pencil it into my planner. When I started to see board signs for the Feria del Libro, I still didn't take much notice. But when my host mom's dad starting raving about it last week, I decided maybe I should check this thing out.
Turns out the Feria del Libro is the largest book fair in the spanish-speaking world. It's basically a two-week long meeting bringing together spanish authors, educators, publishers, librarians, bookstore owners and 1,200,200 readers from around the world. Yes, over a million. There's lectures, speeches, book signings, chats, contests, radio broadcasts, oh and books. There's books too.
This place has little, if any, resemblance to the annual elementary school book fairs where a truck would show up, unload a bunch of books about Aaron Carter and whatnot, posters (also often with Aaron Carter or some other half not-quite-but-almost celebrity)your class would have a reserved time to mingle and look at books. Then, you'd go home and tell your mom about the newest Babysitter's Club or vampire mystery, who would then send you to school with the next day with cash or a check if she was smart. Then, the girls generally returned home with a poster of yellow lab puppies and the boys with a poster of a Lamborghini.
No, this book fair is much more. It's not just a stuffy meeting of intellectuals or a giant bookstore, it's both, plus 1500 expositions from 42 countries, food, drinks, music. I guess it's more like a book party.
And how great that we still have book parties even though no one reads! And well attended book parties at that! The line was 3 blocks long all weekend, passing my front door. But I'm also in a country with a bookstore on every block. Somehow I don't think over a million people would come out for this no matter what US city you put it in...
But I like books, and being my mother's daughter, I been raised with a affinity for perusing bookstores. I can't tell you how many times I've had to beg her to leave a bookstore. If there's a bookstore in the proximity, she'll turn down ice cream, shopping, even a diet coke, so she can fondle used books. And like mother like daughter, I now seem to be stragnely attracted to bookstore, and have a hard time leaving. No matter that I will only read a fraction of the books I pick up, and a small fraction at that, there's just something fun about flipping through books, wondering what's inside, and knowing I'll never know. But how great that someone knows. If that makes ANY sense. (It's well past midnight). Anyways, I knew it was a bad idea to enter a gigantic book fair, but I did, and I've now been there three days in a row and kinda wanna go back tomorrow.
http://www.el-libro.org.ar/internacional/general/
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
No puedo tolerar la gente intolerante
Los negros son feos, los judios son raros, los paraguanos son vagos, los peruvianos son ladrones. Yesterday, I was practicing talking about hypothetical situations in spanish (for the exam) and I used the example "If I were Michelle Obama..." to which my host mom cut me off to say "but Michele Obama is black". If there's one thing I can't tolerate, it's intolerant people.
I realize that BsAs is a multicultural city and therefore there are bound to be class/race conflicts, but the amount of blatantly racist comments and rigid stereotypes i hear on a daily basis from my profesor, host parents, newcasters is astounding.
I think this is a product of lack of education and desperation. If your neighbor takes your job, you're probably going to hate him, and, if you don't feel so god about yourself, noting that at least youre better than your neighbor will make you feel better than something! I think that lack of resources ($) makes people desperate, and looking for someone to blame, hate, feel better than. In a nation insecure about its 2nd world status and still struggling to overcome a financial meltdown a decade ago, it seems logical that racism would flourish. And i am here to testify that it is.
It's been quite an experience to live with and care about people who think and talk like this. It's a lot easier to mentally place racists way over there...in the south...or on TV...and to think of myself as being so distinct from them. But putting a face on the "racist", living with them, and loving them has reminded me that racists are people too, even "good" people. When I hear such comments coming from the mouths of , for example, my host mom, I want to explain to her the basic concept that the existence of distinct races is a mere mental construct, a skin color and no more. But I know she can't just snap out of her racist mind. She's been trained since birth to think this way, and her entire reality is this way.
And that's the suckiest part about racism, it's really hard to change. Which makes me almost feel sorry for them. They clearly weren't educated and/or feel bad about their own situation if they resort to racist thinking. How sad.
I'm not trying to say that racism is okay or acceptable, just that living here has confirmed racism is not a product of an evil heart, but an unfortunate upbringing. (not that i really thought it was an 'evil heart' before, but you know what i mean.
On the bright side, all the youth i talk to are ashamed of the racist commments of their elders. Hope for the next generation? I hope so!
It'll be nice to return to hippie wonderland Sebastopol where we have nothing to fight about and all the hippies get along with everyone, as long as that person is a hippie.....
Monday, April 25, 2011
familia es feliz
The definition of family and friends is a little different here. A family is a group of people who share lineage, a last name, holidays, homes and a few other things. But here in Argentina, they share it all.
Every Sunday in Buenos Aires, all the shops close down so the families can get together. Hundreds of families convene for rollerblading, BBQ, boat rides at the rosedal (park) . Parillas (BBQs) are ignited at houses, apartments, and parks across Buenos Aires. Teenagers sober up from Saturday, divulge from their rooms, and come home from their friends' homes to give grandma a hug and eat dinner with the family (hormones are not an excuse here in Argentina).
Not only do they dedicate one of their weekend days to family, they pay tribute to this sacred structure every day. My host mom talks with her sister every day at 8:30, shortly after her parents call and often her sister calls back again. Even my host mom's sister's mother in law calls a couple times a week. I don't think my mom even knew her sister's mother in laws name or city of residence. My host dad eats lunch with his parents every single day and still goes on Sunday. One of my friends openly calls her sister her best friend and I have yet to see them without the other. Another friend's best friend's mother was her mother's best friend, and this has been going on for 3 generations.
The size of the family here is also of note. They're big, and always getting bigger. You don't have to become pregnant or even sign adoption papers to ad someone to the family, you just have to "consider" them family. I know people that have brothers that were later revealed to be "brothers". My host dad spends copious time with uncles, holds dinner parties for cousins he's never met visiting from Italy, and calls me hija. The bigger the better.
Part of the reason this can work out is that people don't move around a whole bunch here. People seem to move to the city, but rarely move out. I mean why would you? ;)
Whereas n the US it seems, the family structure has reduced in importance with divorces, people moving around all the time, and the fact that our culture just doesn't allow time for family (all the Italians didn't manage to diffuse it out to all of us I guess), we're way too busy with other things. At least we make up for rare visits and infrequent phone calls big gifts on xmas?
Anyways, the whole family structure itself is bigger and stronger. And I like it. I'm importing a few trends to the US: drop crotch pants, mate, long cafe chats, and the value of family.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Holy Shit
Garish American accent, designer sunglasses, a sunhat, a crown of blonde hair and a naive smile. A backpack the size of a bear cub behind, another smaller pack on the chest and a plastic grocery back of food in one hand.
To some, this girl looks like a young foreign college student travelling. To others this girl is a lost, wounded antelope, all alone in the savannah; an easy kill for a lucrative robbery.
So there I was, all alone in the Subte during rush hour practically asking to be robbed. And these predators are smart; I was only a little lost, and not wounded, but my backpack was loaded; we’re talking passport, macintosh laptop, Nikon camera and a wad of fresh $ar100 bills. But I’m not a dumb little deer, I knew I was a target. So with a vice grip on my backpack straps, an exaggerated “don’t you dare fuck with me” facial expression, and security camera eyes, I boarded the packed linea D for downtown Buenos Aires. Bring it, I thought.
Apparently, these precautions weren’t enough. A couple stops later, I glanced down to catch the hand of the man creeping from under a strategically placed sweatshirt like a trained cobra, about to strike on my zipper. SMACK! I swatted the little serpent, hissed “Fuck you”, gave the man a look absolute repugnance, and he hopped off at the next stop.
Minutes after it happened I mentally reenacted hypotheticals in which I yell a clever, painful phrase in quick Castellano, bust out a self defense move I saw in Tomb Raider and he leaves the Subte in tears.
After hundreds of warnings and anecdotes about the rutheless Buenos Aires robbers, I expected it would happen to me once. Maybe even twice. But three times in a week and a half?
That’s right. A few days later, leaving an ATM with crisp bills and a credit card, I thought felt something touch my backpack, anxious from the recent Subte episode, I casually shook my backpack to deter stray hands, kind of like how a horse flinches to deter flies. The, sure enough, some fine gentlemen at the next corner informed me that my backpack was unzipped. And no I didn’t forget to zip it thank you very much.
That weekend, I was on one of my weekly photography journeys, flittering through picturesque places in the city when I stumbled upon “La Catedral”, a huge, beautiful church. While inside a pigeon pooped on me! A couple of seconds later, a women who had a face just like Mother Mary in the idol to my right, tapped me on the back to inform me that she had a wet towel and wanted to help me. Phew, I thought, no embarrassing walk of shame! She proceeded to help me remove my backpack and DSLR camera and wipe the “poop” off my legs, back and out of my hair … all the while turning … wait … turning me? I thought. Why is she turning me? I turned my head just in time to catch another women who had been kneeling and “praying” to a baby Jesus, had quickly taken her hands out of prayer position and put them on my camera. Whoa! I thought! Whoa, Whoa, Whoa! I quickly snatched my camera, zipped the backpack and said “muchas gracias,” in a voice that got my point across. Get your grimy hands of my shiny stuff.
As I walked out of the church in a confused daze, I still couldn’t believe it. Did I just get robbed in a catholic church? No way, no one does that in a cathedral. And she looked just like Mary. And where would that poop come from? This was eiterh a grand, nasty plan, or that women wasn’t an accomplice, but someone else trying t help me? Hmm.
Maybe the bored security guard could help. Uhhh Hay uhhh palomas al dentro de le iglesia? He laughed.
I then got home and the first words out of my host mom’s mouth were “What is that stuff on your backpack?” (translated, of course). “Caca, paloma caca.” She looked at me weird and said “No,no,no,no,no, no es caca!”
It was then that I finally admitted that I’d been robbed in a Catholic church. Or attempted to be robbed.
Unfortunately, now I'm suspicious of just about everybody: children in school uniforms, pregnant women, neighbors, our sweet house cleaner; everybody’s a suspect. What a transition from trusting little Sebastopol, where suspicion is looked down upon. Theater seats and restaurant tables are held by purses: "Hey man, if I leave my wallet on our seats, don't you think people will know they're occupied?" Homeless people make more cellphone calls than some people who actually pay for a cell phone: "Bro, will you lend me a minute on that cell, I really gotta talk with my homie real quick." And everybody goes with it, fearful they might appear too suspicious, uptight, or worst of all "not chill."
I've been raised surrounded by hippies, storybooks and parents teaching me that we are all one, everyone has a good heart, blah, blah. And a beleive this. But. I also earned real quick that even if someone has a good heart, they still may want my stuff. And here, most people want my stuff. Because few people have my stuff.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Manifestanciones
Why does Mom always have to be right when I really don't want her to be? When we disagree, which isn't very often actually, I think were about 50/50 in terms of who has the most fact-based opinion in the end. But every time I really, really want to be right, or really, really think I'm right, she's right. When I completely blow her off, say, "duh" or don't let her finish her sentence, karma bites me, seemingly changing the laws of the universe to counteract whatever I'm so firm about. So when I rolled my eyes during our first skype conversation when I mentioned I was planning to travel through Bolivia and she progressed to whip out a laundry list of reasons not to enter this god-forsaken boobie trap of a country, starting with road blockades and ending with fatal altitude sickness, I should have remembered this bizarre pattern of her being right when I know I'm right, and stopped the eye roll-subject change in its tracks. But I didn't and here I am reading about breaking news of large scale protests, worker strikes and road blockades in La Paz, Rurrenbaque and Santa Cruz.
Maybe we really should rethink this whole Bolivia thing given that I almost laughed when my mom mentioned fatal altitude sickness.
With this knowledge uneasily in mind, we tentatively continued to sew together a route through Bolivia last night, knowing that our entire quilt will unravel if this civil unrest continues. The alternative of Northern Chile just seems so dry and flat and....well, dry and flat sums it up. I'm thirsty for the rugged selvas, indigenous villages, and chicken buses, and only Bolivia can quench it.
So what are they protesting, anyways? Voy a averiguar...
Sunday, April 17, 2011
5 great films, and no I'm not bored
To me, going to the movies seems on par with going to the mall: expensive, often boring and repetitive, usually disappointing, and overall just a waste of time. I've just had it with forking out 12 bucks for two hours of overstimulation without any evident purpose. How many people did I need to see shot up, blown up, beat up, sexed up in an extremely patterned fashion before I got bored of main stream movies? Well, it took 20 years, hundreds of blockbusters, and a warehouse of popcorn, but I now paradoxically find the movies full of action, complex plot lines, flawless actors, to be dull and repetitive.
So when signs started popping up around the city advertising an independent film festival in Buenos Aires, I thought, "Oh neat, I wonder what this is all about." I then found the website for the BAFICI film festival, with 422 films, 10 pesos tickets ($2.50) and immediately contacted my film geek best friend to exlaim "OHH NEATO! CHECK THIS OUT!"
We started out seeing a Ukrainian film about competitive horseback riding teens who may be lesbians, but it's really about the nature of power in human relationships (as Natasha so finely extracted from symbolism of dog training whistles in the film ... film degrees are NOT useless, mom).
The next night we watched a French mom who never grew up get nixed from her daughters wedding invitation list, get a job in Brazil selling time shares, a nice boyfriend and finally an invite to the wedding. Then we watched her fuck up the job, boyfriend and the wedding. I think the message had to do with being yourself even when you don't fit into societal norms. I mean hey, she was happy the almost the entire movie.
Next, we sat through an hour and a half long meditation on the relation between individual humans, society and nature framed by Henry David Thoreau quotes. This Swiss film follows a young trouble maker around his rural neighborhood, as he wanders, makes mischief and comments on the completely normal lives of his neighbors. The film was slow, real slow. Minutes without dialogue, scenes with now apparent purpose, constant mental nagging to check the time. But the message was sweet, or the message I gave it...To me the film was about how the boy doesn't really like, or doesn't really get society yet. He wants to run through muddy creeks dressed in a tuxedo, pop car tires with salvaged parts of soccer goal post parts, and just about anything that rebellious "I didn't make the rules of the world", he says. The other people in the film then have different relationships with society in terms of success etc. and with nature. Through the quotes it becomes apparent that the film is about how we are al born into this crazy human world, where our species makes rules and customs that we have no choice but to abide by or live amongst, but we always have the patterns of nature to fall back on. When the world is falling apart (the human constructed one), we can always look up at the sky, find silence sitting in a field, or swim in a pond and remember that the rules are fake. Were just animals on a crazy, crazy planet. Beautiful message. But the after thought for me: what happens when we destroy this thing called nature, cover it in concrete and burn it to ashes? Hmph.
We kept the pajama party rollin' with a documentary about a mayor in Slovokia who thinks his town has two many single people. He organizes a party and plays matchmaker trying to get people to get down. His mission: failed. The film: success. Very funny, and anthropologically interesting to see a town in the middle of Slovakia. Let's just say I'm glad my parents didn't find real estate while backpacking through Eastern Europe. And I'm also glad to not be 40 and single (just banged on my desk).
The marathon finished on a euphoric note, with a film called "Run, Sister, Run" in which two teenagers get out of control, drinking, stealing, smoking, having sex and running away. The hard rock music and fast scenes took me right back to age 16, bringin up dusty memories of yelling fights with parents, overwhelming emotions, and the fun of not doing what you're told. Not sure if there was any big point, but it was fun to relive the glory days of pot smoking in cars and skipping class. (Mom and Dad: Julianna made me do it, don't worry)
Watching five movies in a week sounds like something someone who really needs antidepressants and a job would do, but I don't think I need either, and the films were great. Each one slow enough and different enough to make me think, and rethink some stuff I don't always think about. They were the opposite of the main stream predictable plots, with bizarre scenes, less than attractive actors, refreshingly real life characters, little to no violence, no naked people, and 1/5 the price. I came away from each film with a slightly different take on something, whether it be marriage, life in Brazil, or life itself.
I feel like movies can change lives, or the way people view life (which is really all we have). But so few films do. Mainstream films have become this odd escapism practice, where we go to some idealized reality, and be some idealized person, whether it be a sexy boss in the fashion industry with two boy toys or a detective who at night is a superhero blowing up bad guys, and then getting freaky with his two girl toys. I'm glad quality movies that make the viewers think, discuss and debate still exist; even if they make no money and are only seen my film nerds and losers like Natasha and I.
It was great to rekindle my love of movies through the BAFICI.
Now where THE HELL the the almost free indie film fests in the US? Oh that's right, they don't exist.
Semana loca, recien antes de Semana Santa
This dog was barking and growling at the fox tails. Lolzzz.
The last flame has finally flickered out on a forest fire of a week. Five intense films at the BAFICI independent film festival, multiple big life realizations and a peek behind the Buenos Aires's velvet curtain revealing the stark reality of poverty. Forest fires are natural and necessary, I know. But it sure feels nice once the heat, flames and smoke have subsided, leaving behind clear skies, fresh air and opportunity for nature to take advantage of the fresh, fertile soil.
http://www.bafici.gov.ar/home11/web/es/index.html
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