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...

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

Chivalry ain't dead

My new roommate.


; )

Walking down the street in Buenos Aires, I sometimes just feel like a target. No wait, I don't feel like a target, I AM a target. Target for robberies, for bird poop, fake bird poop and a target for the commentaries of the huge surplus of Machistos males spilling out of building doorways, lurking in streetside cafes and waiting at intersections on motorbikes. It's like I'm one of those poor little chipmunks wearing a cowboy hat in a old-school Disneyland shooting range. Every time the plywood figure elevates, BOOM! Multiple overly excited male spot the beady eyes and the little guy is hit by an invisible bullet as the laser on the fake rifle connects with the red eyes of the squirrel. Then, PING! the hinges immediately swing the squirrel's face back into hiding. I allow my eyes to leave the side walk and wander to the approximate elevation of other human eyes and BOOM! some overly excited male sports my eyes and pierces them with an intentioned stare with lazer-like precision. Like the shooting range, the invisible yet powerful bullets are accompanied by predictable sounds including, but not limited to, whistles, hoots, hollers and engine revving. Once one of these guys hits me with a laser beam stare, just like the squirrel darts back behind the plastic "saloon" sign, my eyes dart somewhere else. Usually to the sidewalk, or cross the street, I pretend to have this glazed over look and stare intently at a tree or some nearby object, so they think I actually didn't hear/see them. At first it was disgusting and intolerable; then it became annoying, really annoying; and now it's just funny.

I thought about writing about how I feel like a piece of meat sometimes, or a baby wildebest in a Kenyan water whole, because often I do. But this stuff just gets me down. Thinking of the Machisto ways in a comical way, like it's a Disneyland game and my eyes are dodging around avoiding laser bullets makes it that much more tolerable. It can actually be really entertaining to watch this unfold. You just have to laugh when some guy winks at you while feeding his baby or in mid sentence on a cell phone call interrupts to say "Buen dia," (of course in a tone of voice that shows that he's not trying to wish you a good day, but let you know he wants to take your clothes off).

Now that said, I am talking about the common "street machisto", the harmless bored men that seem to need to call attention to themselves by calling attention to every young woman. The situation in the boliches, (basically clubs without a last call) is unbearable. I knew I wouldn't like the boliches when I heard what they were, I've never liked clubs, even though I've also never been to one. I just know I don't. But for some reason I went. And just like Jiminey Cricket warned me, I hated it. These giant mating rituals are hubs of machisism (coming to a Webster's dictionary near you...) , where every guy that hollered at you today on the street and all their friends meet, unbutton their shirts, put on dad's gold chain, and chug vodka and speed (red bull with more sugar, tastes similar to, uhh, sugar). So these drunk machistos now have twice the confidence, twice the energy, plus the cultural tradition of kissing before, after, and during every social encounter. You can probably guess that this recipe bakes up and over the top orgy, where females with any dignity are literally ducking and dodging from kisses. I am not exaggerating. Just walking from point A to point B in the club, I would encounter anywhere from one to three attempts to hold my hand, meaning guys grabbing my hand. And a couple times attempt to kiss me before even learning my name. It was unreal. I would like to be able to look at this like a game and just laugh it off, but it's not as harmless and simple as the wild west shooting range. This is more comparable to Grand Theft Auto, where you're escaping bad guys and using self defense. Wayyyy more intense. For the few hours I was in the boliche, I knew I had a choice: either get shit faced, probably enjoy myself, and also probably contract herpes. Or be Debby Downer and just watch this locura go down. I decided to put on my Anthropology glasses and analyze this shit. Now that's my type of Saturday night. I ended up basically concluding that this is chivalry in the 21st century, and that all those cat calls in the streets are really the desperate calls of insecure males, anguishing in the realization that women have the same rights, same brain size (I heard ours were bigger, but I don't want to hurt any feelings on here) , and a longer life span. It seems these shouts, whistles, hollers and lazer beam stares are their last trying effort to put us back in our place, to remind us "Hey, you're just a chica", "You're just a sex object to me". My final conclusion was that I hate boliches. But also that they're really entertaining from a table in the corner with females on either side of me.

There are so many things that I can accept about other cultures and ways of life, but this Machisto attitute has been really hard to digest. It makes me so thankful that back home I (usually) can walk down the street in peace. In addition, I realize that, actually, I enjoy opening my own door, thank you. "Chivalry is dead", don't the Argentines listen to Nelly Furtado?

Planes para Mayo

This photo has nothing to do with this post. It was taken on my dream of a day on the street of Colonia, Uruguay. A "tranqui" (short for tranquilo or translated as chill) day with a nap on the beach, good friends, and slow walks on cobblestone streets. tranqisimo.






As travel plans for May begin to take on some sort of vague material reality involving city names, distances, prices, and national geographic photos, my excitement builds and builds. "Whoaaaa!" I think evertime I try to do a little internet research, "I haaaaave to see this!". Then I click a link. And "Whhhoaaaaaa!" says the voice in my head, "This too!"

31 days seemed like a generous allotment of time when I bought my plane ticket in January, but now it seems minuscule. There are so many places I want to see: archeological sites, beautiful towns, big cities, ecological reserves, the list goes on. But the problem is the list can't go on.

I had this image of South America as the big little place. Like I knew it was really big, but I pictured the distances between places as being relatively short. But I guess that's what you get for growing up flying every time your family travels more than 300 miles. So anyways, it turns out most these places are 20-30 hour bus rides on dirt roads and therefore we can't visit all 50 places I want to visit. And in addition, my conception of traveling is a little more despacio than most. I'd rather stay in 3 places for a few days than zip through 20 places just for a photo op and bathroom break.

So! Here are our plans as of yet:

May 7th: Saldremos Buenos Aires.

Next to Salta and Jujuy, in Northern Argentina. Known for wild llamas, indigenous culture and beautiful "cerro de siete colores" (aka super colorful mountains).

Next, we cross over into Bolivia. Hopefully smoothly we get through customs and on to the town on the other side. From there it's a 20 hour train ride (and the train only goes on Tuesdays and Saturdays....this ain't no Amtrak) through the Bolivian Salt Flats (also known as the moon). I'm really excited for this train ride, and some of it will be moonlit! We end up in Unuyi.

Next, bus to La Paz and Lake Titikaka. Chill there for a bit. Piles of places to see around the lake.

Then cross into Peru, head for Cusco, and then Machu Piccu.

Our plans after that are basically to: "see the jungle, like Heart of Darkness". So we need to a) work on this and b) decide how much we value our lives before jumping on a river boat in Amazonia with six men with machetes. And I digress.....

Mate, the Argentine bong

My drug of choice is caffiene. And I'll admit, I am not a casual user. It started with frappucinos, progressed to diet cokes and finally became an addiction when I not only started enjoying black coffee, but managed to get three jobs, all that offer free coffee, and one that even gives me a free pound every week for home. Taylor Maid knows how to keep employees. If your employees are addicts and you give them free drugs, I mean come on no wonder everyone's been there for years.

But anyways, today I bought a mate and bombilla, expanding my caffeine intake options. A big move for a coffee lover, because you can't, or shouldn't do both. A morning of mates and coffee is could quickly push one into a caffeine overdose, with anxiety, slurred rapid speech, and over excitement at small things. If you want to see someone ODing on caffiece, just go order something at Starbucks, the person who takes your order is trippin'.

But I digress. I am excited to be embracing the mate. Yes, it contains caffeine, but the consumption of mate has little in common with the consumption of coffee in the US. Similarly to the way coffee here is a social ritual, involving over an hour at a cafe and mandatory banter among friends or strangers, mate drinking is a social matter. They always warn you that once you start smoking pot or drinking alone, you clearly have a problem; and in that case Americans have a big giant addiction as we hide away in cubicles, bedrooms and cars, nursing 32oz black tar, ehem I mean, black coffee. Here, the mate is like a college freshmen bong, an excuse to sit down and talk, bullshit, argue and make friends. Except mate is legal, cheaper, better for you, and will leave your mind feeling clear and energized, not foggy, tired and confused. Freshmen year of college I smoked a lot of pot. Not because I love the feeling of being stoned, (a deep breath does much more for me than a bong rip) but because of the fun I had sitting in a circle in some dark dorm room talking, chatting, joking, listening to music and just enjoying company. I remember when I stopped smoking, I didn't miss the drug itself, but mostly the friends, conversations and such. Here, it's like people are lighting up bongs on the streets, but their offering mate. People walk around with their mate (the gourd) and just lit down and offer it to others; friends, strangers, storekeepers. If you ever want to make a friend, just bring your mate or find someone with mate and they will undoubtly be happy to share with you. Where is this ritual in the US??! Why don't we have some equivalent excuse to just sit down and enjoy company, share a little herb (lol) and some conversation. It seems like just a small thing, "oh gosh darn, I wish we had some tradition that allowed us to bullshit more", but honestly it's kind of a big deal! Sometimes chance meetings with acquaintances or other people you'd like to talk with but have no excuse (cute boys anyone?) can be so awkward. You either say "hey, uhhh good to see you!" or "like we should totally meet up" (with no intention on either end), or you have to be super courageous and make plans to do something, without knowing if the other person even wants to! Now mate solves all this. "Would you like to join me for some mate?" and you sit down for a few minutes wherever you are and chat. Other people can join in, and suddenly you've made friends, caught up with old friends, and basically had a really nice little interaction.

Now I'll shut up about how great mate is, but one other thing I think is important about this ritual is the sharing aspect. There's something really nice about offering a little of what you have to whomever wants some. It reminds me of the stories I heard in catachism (spelled wrong, but that wretched after church thing where the kids go to learn about Jesus) when Jesus would be in the desert and share his water or his hummus or whatever. Or it's kind of like how the girl who shares her gum in class always has a million friends, and also is generally a really nice person. Anyways, yay for mate and sharing.

Of course the pastry boys are gay..

Yesterday, while purchasing a sympathy sweet, if that's a thing (I thought a big creamy bite of a dulce de leche pastry would absolve the death of my host mom's tio, which by the look on her face did for a minute), the woman who picked out the round morsel oozing of caramel laughed at me when I asked her if she baked the sweets. "Of course not," she said smiling in mutual understanding with the woman across the room. "The women work in the front, and the men bake." She then paused, thinking if she would tell me why she was laughing. She did. "They're all gays, like in the salons, all the pastry makers are gay." I then looked up to catch one of these guys walking through the double doors to the kitchen, sporting a clean shave, pressed pants, and a face that could be in a Prada campaign; I knew she wasn't kidding.