Weekend at Berno's

The other day one of the locals I befriended named Berno invited me to celebrate his child's birth.
The child in it's early developmental stage seemed hardly capable of contributing much worth noting, yet I thought older people would provide insights into the Argentine condition.

My first impression of Argentina infant birthdays was rather positive. The father was cranking Jimmy Hendrix full volume and the baby was playing with an Argentine edition Winny the Pooh (it was a Peronista street protester the Pooh). There was an assortment of party food such as chips, cheetos, guacamole and tortillas, Coca-Cola, Sprite and Heineken. Until then these Argentines seemed to be accepting global hegemony. Everyone was getting along and the conversation was amenable.

But then the troubles started.

The mother rolled out the local food: peceto, arrollado dulce, and what really seemed to tip the scale: Russian Salad. From that moment on everyone got a little louder. Controversies started to erupt. River vs. Boca, City vs. Country, Capitalist vs. Communist, etc. The mounting tension was palpable. We seemed to drift closer, with every byte of these local flavors, to a full out fist fight.

"Marn', ween ya see them trybl' peepls goin et'it, doncha take naw sydes. Das how ma papa went. Arraw to da hed tryn' to fix'em up Cherokee cheevs." Charley, I tried to follow your advice... but then, the grandmother in a fit of fury after losing face in an argument about pasta vs. potato gnocchi confronted me.

She considered herself grieved because I came to her country, was invited to her granddaughter's birthday and had the spunk not to talk to or play with the child.
What did she want me to say? "Congratulations on successfully circumnavigating the sun, through no merit of your own despite your caretakers best attempts to die of red meat ingestion and 70's rock overexposure."
And as far as playing with the child, frankly, I only came because of the father. As far as the child goes, I wasn't sold. When we could have a basic conversation then we could agree to spend some time at parties. I'm not going to sign any papers with someone who could turn out to be a Khmer Rouge sympathizer.

These completely reasonable arguments only seemed to enrage the abuela even more. My attempts at reasoning were thus exhausted.
For the old woman's sake I did what Niels Bohr would have done and tried to unify our theories. This was a poor assessment. It turns out that if there is something Argentines love more than complaining it's staunchly defending a position solely to contradict others. Reaching accords is a major faux pas.

My friend kindly asked me to apologize for this, but I thought he meant to apologize about my original statements. The woman was pushing ninety and did not look good. She already had enough of a stoop story without the trip to the ER. When I was about to retract for the sake of peace Berno's face twitched, he stopped me to say under his voice "don't you dare apologize for your opinions in my house! This is a free country..."

After that I played with the baby, which was the appropriate way to reach a truce. Everyone including the grandma seemed satisfied. The baby turned out to be a lot more sophisticated than I anticipated being fully dexterous in kissing on the cheek, high-fiving, knocking heads on command and displaying her index finger when asked about her age. She also discarded most gifts while primal-dancing to "All Along The Watchtower." With that nascent being I already found some points of agreement.

Well Hot Argentine Summer

Oh, Argentinians. Will thou ever cease to amaze me. You have taught me so well how little effort is necessary for a state to exist. For that I must thank you. Political scientists of the world, drop what you're doing and please shuttle yourselves down here immediately. The books must be rewritten! Retire Hobbes and let's work our way up from Aristotelian enumeration. If Tristan Tzara had written a country, it would be Argentina.

After Christmas, my family, joined me in Pinamar, where Argentinians summer. Even though the topic of conversation was to be my prolonged absence from the states it became clear that the only possible course of action was ethnographic study.

In Pinamar the Argentine mid to high class throws what little social norms they mimic to the wind and drive ATVs like maniacs to wide windy beaches. The men sport third world chieftain bellies and black moustaches. Women show off their carefully sculpted (by a plastic surgeon) bodies wearing the minimalist expression of a bikini. Needless to say I was perplexed by this practice and observed it in detail to further human understanding of the universe.

They soak in the sun all day trying to attain a purplish brown complexion. Around midnight Argies abandon their attempts to treat third degree sunburns and flood parrillas and other eateries. Reinvigorated they start dancing around 2:30AM.

"Danceen's da wrk aw da, Deveel, buoy. Doncha go trustn' no danceen man. Ah reckn' he's a gawna try n' poke ya in da rear." Rang Charley's words reason for which I kept my distance from men. Women seemed to keep their distance from me on their own, making my work half as hard.

After risking our necks in this 'Lord of the Fliesque' setting we took our chances on Argentina's highways. I never knew a 1960 Ford Falcon could reach such speeds, though at the cost of what seemed like bone shattering vibration. Back in Buenos Aires my family caught the first flight out of this land. They abandoned their attempt to identify the forces gaving cohesion to this state.

I was alone once again until old pals from the yacht racing world invited me to the Rolex South Atlantic Circuit. Apparently if there is something that Argies like more than creating new laws to break them, it is to buy a Rolex to have it stolen. Again to Punta del Este with an Argentine crew? Nay I say! After my Pinamar experience rest was imperative. These swashbuckling argies wouldn't take no for an answer and abducted me in hopes that I would share America's sailing secrets. Their disappointment was short lived. If the last crew I joined to Punta del Este was odd, this was straight out of The Black Pirate (1926), I, of course, was Douglas Fairbanks' character. This is footage from the regatta

Punta del Este was in full swing. There seemed to be a linear relationship between the money women spent on their appearance and their expediency to discard my attempts at conversation. Attempts which were entirely for anthropological purposes. I blame some of my crewmen. Despite the fact that their antics were sometimes humorous, their notorious eagerness to express affection to these highly produced females seemed excessive. One of them memorably insisted in throwing his lips at them. A couple of close calls with boyfriends only seemed to convince him that this method was working.

Alas, I could not take this savagery any longer and attempted to return to my port of call by bus and then ferry. Of course nothing is that simple in the River Plate. I reached the terminal with my bag of gear and two of my crewmen only to find the bus driver cripplingly inebriated. One of my companions hypothesized that kicks to the ribs would sober the man up, a notion which I sternly, but fruitlessly refuted. Eventually after a dialogue with the local sheriff, my primal friend was pardoned and a less drunk driver was produced. In all this confusion my ship's coxswain exploited these shows of brutishness to attract a couple of females. They were puzzlingly attracted by these posturing and chest bumping so we were favored with their contact information.

All in all I think this was a valuable experience. I am no closer to justify the peoples of the southern cone, but at least my understanding and ability to mimic their behavior in order to get around is vastly improved.

I bid you fair well until my next account.

Double Whammy

Dear friends and allies,

As it is widely known in social circles of the District, albeit the less well connected do not, I remain banished in the land of Argentina. Here the soil soaks in the blood of cattle and good intentions of men; while beef eating Argentinos and Argentinas roast the flesh of a Hereford for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tea time is reserved for facturas and mostly mate.

It is hard for a corn bred, red blooded American like me to live in a land so wild teeming with tricksy people who abuse my kindheartedness at every turn. It's like good ole Charley E, a real redneck from Kansas told me once

"Whut yoo gonna ghaw doo dawn dere, Mahrn, buoy? Yoo ain't goa no bidness in them Soudamerica! Yoo Amrkn' as apple pah! Mo'even."*

Sure wish I'd followed your advice, ole Charly boy. Never will forget those red cheeks and shoulders, after a full day's labor, when you said it. What truth you spoke! Even in your limited intelligible ways.
Them Argies, they ain't got no decorum. They tell me that lady called Cristina is the president of the land, but no, sir, it is sarcasm which presides over the executive, no doubt.

The real antic down here seems to be telling foreigners that really they're Argies. Even the good boys at the American Embassy seem to be in on it. Maybe they've caught on to the locals and are merely trying to extort some money out of me.
Visa? I'm from McLean, VA! Be it as it may, I can't get back home. My passport gone I've managed to move in with some people who lost a son some time ago who had an uncanny resemblance with me. It is spooky, my word on it.

In good American fashion, I refuse to surrender to this situation. Something about a wild thing, one of our great poets said. Not as eloquent myself. I'm on my feet, getting out on the streets and spreadn' the good word about democracy, the free markets and, yes, Baseball (the oxidizing element of democracy, if one might). I feel confident that in no time this will be a fledgling republic full of honest hard working people. No time, I tell you.

My stories will be recorded here, on this world wide web log in hopes that some kindhearted border officer, maybe my congressman or even the President himself might see it to it that the tribal leaders of Argentina secure my passage back home. Until then, my job is to unleash the American inside every one of these South Americans who crosses my path.
Sadly, you may never know, Charley, unless my return occurs, since

"Der ain't no 'wah-fah' in Kansas, bwah! Nah git da heck outta hir befaw yoo catch'a beat'n!"**

as you used to say.

How long will it be? That is for time to decide.

--------------------------

Idiomatic clarifications and footnotes:

I've taken the liberty to elucidate for the city folk through foot-notes what that voice from the heartland so illuminatingly preached:
*"What will you do in the Sudlands of the sub-continent, Martin, my lad. There is nothing for you to do in South America! Have you not been following The Economist (r) ? You are as American as a Coolidge or a Lodge! Even more so, in fact."
**"There is no Wi-Fi coverage in the corn fields. This I sternly, and a little agitatedly, point out."

http://www.economist.com/countries/Argentina/ For those of you unfamiliar with the terrain and in need of a refresher from an irreproachable source. Charley has in fact never read The Economist (r), but his remark implies a truth so widely known and correct that the only way to express it was through referencing something which might have been read in The newspaper.