After one heck of a Saturday, the soothing music of Norah Jones seeped out of a lazy corner restaurant in the little town of Gualeguaychu and initiated a new wave of optimism.
Our bus left BsAs at 9:15 pm Friday evening and was scheduled to arrive in Gualeguaychu, a small Argentinian city three hours North of Buenos Aires around 1 am. Known for its Carnaval celebrations, this was the busiest weekend of the year for Gualeguay. So busy that all the hotels and hostels had been fully booked months in advance and any email responses we received suggested that we were crazy for even asking if they had space. That left camping as our only option, so Friday before we left the busy city we hunted down a nice little green tent for two. Until Friday, all of our bus journeys had gone smoothly. About an hour before our destination the bus encountered "mechanical problems" and we were forced to wait for a replacement. Somewhere between that bus stop in the middle of nowhere and Gualeguaychu, I lost/misplaced/got robbed of my phone. It was in my pocket when I fell asleep but was nowhere to be found when we got into the van that was going to take us to the yet to be determined place to stay. There we were, fresh off the replacement bus, tent in hand, waiting in line for a taxi that we had no idea what we would tell was our destination during the busiest weekend of the year. Always an adventure when traveling with Emily and Lena. I look at the situation as our attempt to embrace the Argentinian culture of not being able to plan ahead as planning is not an option in most cases. For example, I register for classes at the University of Buenos Aires tomorrow and the class schedule is still MIA.
Turns out we weren't the only ones without a set plan, there was a whole van of us at least. The coordinator, who looked completely un-phased by the fact that it was three in the morning, told us that our only option was Camping Municipal which meant that we would not have access to a pool...pity. At that point, a pool was the last thing on my mind. He suggested that we call to make sure there was space, and that is when I realized that my phone was not where I had left it. I ran back to the terminal but the bus was gone, I checked the bathroom where the two women who sell toilet paper were passed out asleep, no luck. I hustled to the bus company's window and the man gave me a phone number to call but it was really was more like my phone's makeshift death certificate and I accepted then and there that it was gone. It had served a great month and a half, that loyal black brick that had yet to run out of its precious pre-paid minutes. Tomorrow I hope to find its replacement. If I am not careful I might start to challenge my mom's record of most phones lost/damaged. Here in Argentina we hang dry clothes, so the dryer is not a threat, however, toilets, washing machines, and water bottles, remain looming hazards.
From the back seat of the white van, we had to tell the driver at least four times where we were headed, and every time he asked, I lost confidence that the campsite even existed. With four out of ten left in the van, we reached the campsite, and lucky for us, they had space. We handed over 20 pesos each, an equivalence of $10 total to stay the night, and were instructed to follow Marcos, whose tight black shirt with the word "Security" printed on the front made him the campsite's trusty security guard. He may not have known a lick about defense, but he put a full effort in helping us set up our tent. As loud music pumped out of various car stereos at 4:15 in the morning, we hit they hay, or in this case, the ground. Sleep, if any, didn't last long and at ten in the morning the boys in the tent next to us decided to blast their stereo with songs of the ever repetitive regetone. We had planned to meet up and camp with our friends from Buenos Aires who we met in Villa Gesell later that evening, but since we hadn't heard anything from them, and there was no hope for sleep, we decided to pack up camp and head to the public beach. This plan lasted two minutes, per usual, as it was quickly interrupted by the boys in the tent next door who were either intrigued that we were packing up so soon, or our accents in Spanish when we replied that we didn't have a lighter because we didn't smoke gave us away as foreigners.
In no way am I suggesting that being discovered as an extranjero, or foreigner, is a bad situation to be in. Sure, if you walk down a dark street in bright colors and your tourist hat and white cotton socks midway up your calf as you speak loudly in English with camera in hand and your passport or wallet imprinted in your back pocket, that identification as extranjero may not lead to a favorable series of events. However, for the most part, being from another place opens up a lot of opportunities to get to know Argentinians as they are just as curious about our culture as I am of theirs: fascinated. In fact, the guys from Villa Gesell love to make fun of me as my eyes light up every time I discover something new and captivating. Apparently, I have a very expressive face at times. Anyway, the boys in the tent next door were from Cordoba, a region North of BsAs that is known for its distinct accent and its consumption of the very herby beer-like Italian drink called Fernet. I tried it, managed to swallow it, survived it, but prefer other delicious Argentine consumables.
The Cordobezes wasted no time and invited us to join them for Asado, delicious meat cooked on the parilla, or barbeque. With still no word from the Villa Gesell crowd we sat down at the picnic table and talked culture, politics, history, and other topics. I am not one who understands politics in general and I thought that of the US was confusing, until of course I tried to understand the political scene of this South American country. From what I understand, Peronismo that evolved during the presidency of Juan Perón is a confusing term that actually functions/functioned as a general word for opposing parties. Peronismo of the left and the right weren't exactly chums, but they both supported Peron, therefore there exist Peronistos of the left and right. Some say it still exists, others feel that the air has changed into Kirchonismo with the party of the current president Cristina Kirchner who ran on a ticket with Julio Cobos, a Vice President of the oposing party and with whom she is now not on speaking terms because he supports the soy bean growing countryside and opposes her desire to increase taxes. Woah, long sentence. A few last notes, Cristina is the wife of Néstor Kirchner who was president in 2003, and who passed away last year. Her approval rating plummeted when she raised taxes for the farmers, spiked after her husband died, and now, well, October means election time and I think there are a lot of people who are more than happy to say bye bye. Also, forget two political parties, Argentina has more than 5.
Back to food. The juicy meat was accompanied by a delicious tomato salad, French bread, and ugh, Fernet. After a filling meal and a lack of sleep, my ideal plan would have been to lay out at the public beach along the calm river and relax in the sun, ha! Sweet dreams. The boys had two extra tickets to a private beach that looked like it was straight out of an MTV Spring Break show. Crowds covered the sand in front of a stage playing once again, regetone, teenagers hid the sand on the beach itself and either splashed nonstop in the river while consuming large plastic bottles of wine, or jumped in all directions subsequently spilling said wine all over the place. Here they would call it a grand joda or fiesta, we might call it, well, an alliteration with the second word being "show." After about an hour, Lena and I decided that it wasn't for us and walked back to the campsite, grabbed our stuff, and jumped on the bus headed into el centro without any idea where we would get off. "Oh look, there is a restaurant with outdoor seating, let's get off here." Great plan except the restaurant was not serving food. The owner guided us in the direction of an air-conditioned gas station with sandwiches, alfajores, and Gatorade: the perfect mix when I was as hungry and thirsty as I was. We sat there for a while as collected ourselves a bit and decided we should probably find internet to fill out the travel form that we were supposed to already have filled out and to let my parents know that I was still alive since I no longer had a phone. Also, side note number...I can't keep track: In most cases, if someone finds a phone they will keep it for themselves. In some cases, they will search the phone for the perfect personal number to call and demand ransom for the phone's owner whose name etc. they most likely do not know. So, if you happen to get a call, ask a few questions before you enter Superman mode.
On the way to find an Internet cafe, we got a text from the boys from Buenos Aires, they were on their way. The Internet we found was extremely cheap. The bakery we ran into had delicious and more than reasonably priced desserts. We passed the restaurant with the calming music of Norah Jones with sweets of Dulce de Leche in hand, and a new found energy; the tides had indeed changed.
The rest of the weekend was a grand joda, in this case not a grand mess, but a great time. Lena and I experienced Carnaval celebrations, I don't think I have ever seen so many nearly naked men and women dancing around with feathers and glitter ect. Basically all it was was a long street with stadium seating on both sides and a parade that went down the middle. It was like the Portland Rose parade with bleachers and less clothing. Also, if you ever go to Gualeguaychu for Carnaval (and maybe this applies to all Carnaval celebrations) get your tickets early and pay the extra money to be down closer to the action. It is worth the dough because when you are sitting way up near the last row because everything else was sold out, it is rather disengaging.
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| Carnaval |
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| You get sprayed with foam or silly string if you are not wearing some form of Carnaval decor |
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| Up close and personal |
We made it back to the new campsite that the boys with the car had found, which was at least half and hour out of town, around two thirty, then ate sandwiches in the dark with everyone and crashed. The next day was beach time, relaxing beach time with Mate instead of Fernet. There were eight of us this time so we used two mates instead of one, one straight and bitter and the other induced with sugar. To put some names to these "Boys from Buenos Aires," the original three are Juan Manuel, who recently graduated school with a degree in physical education, Javier, the oldest at 23 who works for the family business, and Alan, who goes by Pollo and takes classes at the University of Buenos Aires in economics and business. On Carnaval weekend Juan Manuel's girlfriend joined us as well as two from the boys' grade school days who have been dating for some time: Juan and Flor.
We had a day full of the warm, refreshing, and shallow river water, also known as plenty of time to roast and turn into sundried tomatoes. Oops. Later that evening we had hamburgers on the parilla which Javier prepared for us all. It is customary here that the men do the barbequeing while the women prepare the salads. I remember the feast we had in Villa Gesell when the three boys cooked for 17 people. That is something that I really cherish about the Argentinian culture, it is communal. They share mate, eat Asado (meat) together, drink together; they make a point to include everyone and anyone, even if they have just met you. Estadounidenses are known to be cold and standoffish and I can see why, for the most part we all keep to ourselves and our social groups, we have our lists of invitees and we stick to them. Most of the time, here in Argentina the boundaries blur and that brick wall between individuals comes tumbling down. Take for example the proper greeting here, trade in the firm handshake and look in the eye for a cheek to cheek kiss on the face. This applies to all interactions, even if you are meeting someone for the first time, kiss on the cheek, female to male, kiss on the cheek, male to male kiss on the cheek. It doesn't matter who you are, you kiss.
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| Mate on the beach |
To wrap up this long tale, we ate hamburgers and talked, then walked to the beach, nearly couldn't pay attention to where we were walking because the stars were too distracting. We made a campfire and enjoyed some refreshments and even managed to sneak some hours of sleep in before having to catch a van to the bus terminal at 6:30 am. The night before, Lena and I had signed up for the ride into town and the group working with the company said that they would keep an eye out for us the next morning...all we encountered that morning were crickets and disheveled people returning from Carnaval. Since being here I have come to accept that one way or another things just work out, and sure enough two boys who were signed up for the same van walked up a little confused as to where they were supposed to be, and lucky for us, one of their friends who was up the road called them and said that the van was waiting around the corner. We loaded our stuff and bounced in our seats as the van avoided potholes lit up by the third immaculate sunrise I have seen this trip.
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| Lena + Carnaval |
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