It´s not easy writing an award winning, best selling blog. The pressure mounts to produce fresh material post after post. The necessity to deliver witty, insightful, life changing commentary has been satisfied for now, but for how long can one man stand alone as a spring of wisdom? Fortunately, I am aided by the inspired phrases of these southern folk. Not two street blocks can be traversed without some catchy and moderately memorable quote being uttered.
Among these noble-savage-wordsmiths a group stands erect above the rest. These men unburdened themselves of the demands of modern society to cultivate their poetry. They support their art selling everyday objects, which is not but a rhetorical resource for their social critique*. Bearing the elegant moniker of "vendedores ambulantes del bondi", for ambulatory salesmen of the bus, they exist for the delight of all.
Had Hómēros been born into this age and country he would not but have risen to the rank of a mediocre one.
Of these epic bards a few are known far and wide for their powerful poetry and prose. It is a rare delight to see their words in written form so enjoy:
An old man now, his youth saw him a Swedish nobleman and diplomat. After the GATT was, as he put it, deformed into the WTO he took the next ferry from Montevideo to Buenos Aires and is only known as The Autark: "This is a Nike sock which has endured the most strenuous tests of elasticity and durability. ´Made in China´ is nowhere to be found."
Believed to have ran a worldwide corporation until the Tango´s dos por cuatro lured him into the bohemian lifestyle of public transportation haiku singing he is known as The Parker Executive: "If we must write, let´s do it in style, let´s do it with elegance."
A former Argentine president whose identity remains hidden behind a thick beard and a ponytail. His accute observations on political philosophy earned him the title of Leviathan: "I´m not from the government or anything, but I can assure you classes are starting next month."
The Music Man is a strange being whose non-sequitur-ae just make sense: "I can only promise that this girl you like, her panties are going to come off faster than you can say: ´but you´re my sister in law´."
But now we must get to the controversial and ugly part of my post.
For some reason this illustrious activity is monopolized by men. One time only did I see a young woman´s attempt at it. She miserably failed at trying to sell her self published poetry. Her pitch: "Oh, this is not like regular poetry at all. It´s self reflecting." The reason for which she thought anyone would like to read self reflecting poetry about her will remain as unknown as her poetry...
*A more in depth analysis on Argentinians and social critique is forthcoming.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Housing Project
I was taking a stroll down a public park the other day when a citizen of the Republic of Bolivia ordered me to get off his land. Having attended a liberally minded institution my social-scientific mind quickly developed a hypothesis based on my observations, ran some regressions off the top of my head with the data available at the time, assembled a conclusion and self-recommended a course of action.
The result of this express-exercise yielded the following conclusions: This individual identified himself as a native of the continent and saw me as a white occupier who had to leave his land. My policy options were to a) conquer and subjugate, which would be incredibly demodé, b) go native, alas I didn´t know how to translate Dances with Wolves to Spanish, c) or take the moral high ground of the arrogant/guilty anxious first world liberal by pretending to understand this person´s plight and claim to have the solution to his problems through a mixture of micro-finance, poorly read marxism and autarky. This seemed the natural fit, but of course without the problem solving part because I was on my way to a bar.
I told him my respect for his culture was deep and thought it was superior to the cold hearted, dehumanized ways of the West and would be glad to go back to Washington and make a sign reading "Free The Public Park in Argentina!" wearing the alpaca poncho I was expecting he´d provide at no cost because of the deep connection we had just established. He did not like this at all. Apparently he and four thousand others whom I had failed to notice because I was reading "The Economist" on my Blackberry were squatting the park. My promise to ask for the liberation of the park was interpreted by, we shall call him the Park-Man, as a call to evict him and his fellow squatters from what they had in recent hours made their permanent residence. Adding the word "Washington" to the mix evoked images of the Bay of Pigs and Khe Sahn that they had never seen, making them more angry.
Even though I told him I had friends who owned Che-Guevara shirts his anger was mounting rapidly, fortunately on the far side of this situation a large group of people started hurling stones at the squatters. These, Park-Man informed me were the neighbors of the area who did not want the park to be taken by squatters. He Quickly started mixing Molotov cocktails like a third world pyromaniac Tom Cruise to fend off the assailants.
Soon it was an all out battle between the squatters and the neighbors. My understanding from a recent article in the New York Times is that this got to the point that people got killed. The government of the city, with a misdemeanor-fighting police force begged the national government in charge of the city´s actual police to act. Cristina said she didn´t want to "oppress the people." The situation get really tribal to the point that the wounded started getting pulled out of ambulances and the government sent in the national guard. After giving some money to the squatters they reluctantly left.
This whole situation restored my faith in the Argentine political class because of the bold commitment showed to prove social science experiments are realizable in both scope and size. Some less sophisticated observers foolishly believed the government was allowing people to be killed in a neighborhood scuffle, the occupation of a public spaces, and refusing to use legitimate force to prevent either of those things. But I´m one to recognize testing (and proving!) of Hobbes theses when I see it. For starters, the organizer of the occupation was a political organizer for the governing party. This left me much relieved and cleared any suspicion of uncontrolled anarchy.
Here are the Occupier Forces with what I presume are wooden bazookas
The result of this express-exercise yielded the following conclusions: This individual identified himself as a native of the continent and saw me as a white occupier who had to leave his land. My policy options were to a) conquer and subjugate, which would be incredibly demodé, b) go native, alas I didn´t know how to translate Dances with Wolves to Spanish, c) or take the moral high ground of the arrogant/guilty anxious first world liberal by pretending to understand this person´s plight and claim to have the solution to his problems through a mixture of micro-finance, poorly read marxism and autarky. This seemed the natural fit, but of course without the problem solving part because I was on my way to a bar.
I told him my respect for his culture was deep and thought it was superior to the cold hearted, dehumanized ways of the West and would be glad to go back to Washington and make a sign reading "Free The Public Park in Argentina!" wearing the alpaca poncho I was expecting he´d provide at no cost because of the deep connection we had just established. He did not like this at all. Apparently he and four thousand others whom I had failed to notice because I was reading "The Economist" on my Blackberry were squatting the park. My promise to ask for the liberation of the park was interpreted by, we shall call him the Park-Man, as a call to evict him and his fellow squatters from what they had in recent hours made their permanent residence. Adding the word "Washington" to the mix evoked images of the Bay of Pigs and Khe Sahn that they had never seen, making them more angry.
Even though I told him I had friends who owned Che-Guevara shirts his anger was mounting rapidly, fortunately on the far side of this situation a large group of people started hurling stones at the squatters. These, Park-Man informed me were the neighbors of the area who did not want the park to be taken by squatters. He Quickly started mixing Molotov cocktails like a third world pyromaniac Tom Cruise to fend off the assailants.
Soon it was an all out battle between the squatters and the neighbors. My understanding from a recent article in the New York Times is that this got to the point that people got killed. The government of the city, with a misdemeanor-fighting police force begged the national government in charge of the city´s actual police to act. Cristina said she didn´t want to "oppress the people." The situation get really tribal to the point that the wounded started getting pulled out of ambulances and the government sent in the national guard. After giving some money to the squatters they reluctantly left.
This whole situation restored my faith in the Argentine political class because of the bold commitment showed to prove social science experiments are realizable in both scope and size. Some less sophisticated observers foolishly believed the government was allowing people to be killed in a neighborhood scuffle, the occupation of a public spaces, and refusing to use legitimate force to prevent either of those things. But I´m one to recognize testing (and proving!) of Hobbes theses when I see it. For starters, the organizer of the occupation was a political organizer for the governing party. This left me much relieved and cleared any suspicion of uncontrolled anarchy.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Going local
"You have to understand, I've been all over the world and not even the herdsmen of Turkmenistan dared pull these shenanigans. And the protestant lord knows they wanted what I had on me."
That's how my personal friend Kelsy Nelsonson, norwegian-new yorker royalty introduced herself after a year of almost inexistant contact with her extradited friend.
"Kelsy, you must be careful. These twelve year olds here... they don't fuck around. They'll put a bullet in you if you're not grateful enough to be able to pay back on the imperialist ways of your race."
She quickly forgot about her barely missed and hastily replaced belongings and shifted her attention to more pressing matters. "Oh, dear. Forget those ugly things. They were last season's anyways. Wouldn't be caught dead on Main (that's East Hamptons) sporting those. Tell me about your troubles. But first, let's get a bottle of champagne. I'm parched."
So we called up the waiter whom dressed like a buccaneer carried all the hopes and dreams of the working class on those skinny but overworked shoulders. "Happy hour Cristal, dear sir. Make it snappy." The waiter of course knew not what she meant so I explained in Spanish what the lady wanted. There was no such thing as happy hour Cristal, so he just brought out full priced Mumm.
"It is terrible. I've been stranded in this country for six months. Nothing goes on here and the embassy keeps ignoring my calls. I was hoping your political connections..." She interrupted my desperate plight and said. "Oh, dear. Let's get a second round for that. It is truly tragic, what you have been suffering. It is nigh impossible to withstand it on just one bottle." So we ordered a second round. My happiness to finally be in the presence of someone from the inner circle who had arrived to help me out was unsurpassed.
The waiter/pirate was hacking at a fourth bottle of Mumm and Kelsy was possitively trashed. When I finally got through my story and my request for help getting back home she could only muster the words "Darling, I seem to have left my purse behind at the hotel. Would you be a dear and get this tab. Please, don't you ever think not to remind me to get you next time." With which she got up and stumbled away, stopped a cab and mumbled "Four Seasons."
I lived among the Argentinians long enough to know this called for the skipping of a tab. That is how it would be done.
That's how my personal friend Kelsy Nelsonson, norwegian-new yorker royalty introduced herself after a year of almost inexistant contact with her extradited friend.
"Kelsy, you must be careful. These twelve year olds here... they don't fuck around. They'll put a bullet in you if you're not grateful enough to be able to pay back on the imperialist ways of your race."
She quickly forgot about her barely missed and hastily replaced belongings and shifted her attention to more pressing matters. "Oh, dear. Forget those ugly things. They were last season's anyways. Wouldn't be caught dead on Main (that's East Hamptons) sporting those. Tell me about your troubles. But first, let's get a bottle of champagne. I'm parched."
So we called up the waiter whom dressed like a buccaneer carried all the hopes and dreams of the working class on those skinny but overworked shoulders. "Happy hour Cristal, dear sir. Make it snappy." The waiter of course knew not what she meant so I explained in Spanish what the lady wanted. There was no such thing as happy hour Cristal, so he just brought out full priced Mumm.
"It is terrible. I've been stranded in this country for six months. Nothing goes on here and the embassy keeps ignoring my calls. I was hoping your political connections..." She interrupted my desperate plight and said. "Oh, dear. Let's get a second round for that. It is truly tragic, what you have been suffering. It is nigh impossible to withstand it on just one bottle." So we ordered a second round. My happiness to finally be in the presence of someone from the inner circle who had arrived to help me out was unsurpassed.
The waiter/pirate was hacking at a fourth bottle of Mumm and Kelsy was possitively trashed. When I finally got through my story and my request for help getting back home she could only muster the words "Darling, I seem to have left my purse behind at the hotel. Would you be a dear and get this tab. Please, don't you ever think not to remind me to get you next time." With which she got up and stumbled away, stopped a cab and mumbled "Four Seasons."
I lived among the Argentinians long enough to know this called for the skipping of a tab. That is how it would be done.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Hot Wheels~
I recently befriended this Argentine who has become my urban sherpa so I keep him around. His name is Nicanor "El Lagarto" Fletas. Much like the Himalayan variety he's not a talker. This helps him exudes an aura of wisdom which is really no more than familiarity with the place in which he's been stranded for life.
Just as when I was trekking the Himalayas, sometimes keeping up with these folks in their natural habitat can be perilous. But here it is way more dangerous. There is no Base Camp to fuck around here, you'd get pick pocketed in a minute. Traversing this city should be illegal. Maybe that is why anything can be delivered: ice cream, booze, cigarettes, and the local favorites: strippers and pizza. Of course the army of delivery scooters is more hazardous than the Grand Duke of Baden's feldjägerkorps and equally mean spirited.
Jaywalking maneuvers that normally kill your average DCite are easily performed by Porteños. These people are like ninjas of pedestrian infraction. But Darwin said it, other lifeforms adapt as well or perish. In order to catch up with Porteño pedestrians, Porteño drivers have developed astounding assasination skills, sometimes a driver will divert three or four blocks from destiny to take down one of these street lynxes.
This in in part why Argentines never really converted to automatic transmission. You gotta have that quick acceleration to run over grandma trying to cross on yellow. But grandma is not that easily caught. These people are like Emperor Penguins, the ones that made it past 18 are probably gonna push it to 90. Imagine if Oprah Winfrey's Katie Holmes debacle Tom Cruise had played Maverick in TopGun. Now add more hand gestures and a burgee of their soccer team, voila, your average Porteño driver.
A serious problem compounds on this: the car park is what some might call full of "classics." Between the Ford Falcons, Renault 12, Fiat 600 and IES (which is a ripoff of the shittiest Citroen) one really comes to understand what it is to be among people of faith. Faith makes your 1940's-60's piece of shit car perform like a Ferrari Enzo (in your mind, of course). The 1960's Fiat 600 outperforms every Ferrari in the local form of abstract pavement anyways. I keep telling them to no avail that the similarities between the Enzo and the 600 really end at four wheels and Italian. Their ego is writing checks their car body shop can't cash.
But one might ask, how does grandma survive thus far when her speed is severely diminished by arthritis, high cholesterol and 50 years of psychoanalysis? Well, abuela is no longer an ordinary human.
When you're crossing an avenue there is no calculation, cars are coming too fast, their course is too erratic (they side swipe to maximize contact), too many new objects are popping into the picture. You just got to do, and she does. That is how one learns to let an out of control bus flash inches front of one's face at 60 mph. It's all about reacting to the environment, it doesn't matter if it's one inch or ten meters. Apparently the more you do it the better you get at it.
A major cause of death is "loss of conentration due to Porteñas wearing a jean miniskirt and high heels at a busy intersection." I've been told it's an actual line in the statistics ministry's records. The same ministry which claims claims inflation is 0.7%.
But these Porteñas are just one more trap this city lays for you.
Just as when I was trekking the Himalayas, sometimes keeping up with these folks in their natural habitat can be perilous. But here it is way more dangerous. There is no Base Camp to fuck around here, you'd get pick pocketed in a minute. Traversing this city should be illegal. Maybe that is why anything can be delivered: ice cream, booze, cigarettes, and the local favorites: strippers and pizza. Of course the army of delivery scooters is more hazardous than the Grand Duke of Baden's feldjägerkorps and equally mean spirited.
Jaywalking maneuvers that normally kill your average DCite are easily performed by Porteños. These people are like ninjas of pedestrian infraction. But Darwin said it, other lifeforms adapt as well or perish. In order to catch up with Porteño pedestrians, Porteño drivers have developed astounding assasination skills, sometimes a driver will divert three or four blocks from destiny to take down one of these street lynxes.
This in in part why Argentines never really converted to automatic transmission. You gotta have that quick acceleration to run over grandma trying to cross on yellow. But grandma is not that easily caught. These people are like Emperor Penguins, the ones that made it past 18 are probably gonna push it to 90. Imagine if Oprah Winfrey's Katie Holmes debacle Tom Cruise had played Maverick in TopGun. Now add more hand gestures and a burgee of their soccer team, voila, your average Porteño driver.
A serious problem compounds on this: the car park is what some might call full of "classics." Between the Ford Falcons, Renault 12, Fiat 600 and IES (which is a ripoff of the shittiest Citroen) one really comes to understand what it is to be among people of faith. Faith makes your 1940's-60's piece of shit car perform like a Ferrari Enzo (in your mind, of course). The 1960's Fiat 600 outperforms every Ferrari in the local form of abstract pavement anyways. I keep telling them to no avail that the similarities between the Enzo and the 600 really end at four wheels and Italian. Their ego is writing checks their car body shop can't cash.
But one might ask, how does grandma survive thus far when her speed is severely diminished by arthritis, high cholesterol and 50 years of psychoanalysis? Well, abuela is no longer an ordinary human.
When you're crossing an avenue there is no calculation, cars are coming too fast, their course is too erratic (they side swipe to maximize contact), too many new objects are popping into the picture. You just got to do, and she does. That is how one learns to let an out of control bus flash inches front of one's face at 60 mph. It's all about reacting to the environment, it doesn't matter if it's one inch or ten meters. Apparently the more you do it the better you get at it.
A major cause of death is "loss of conentration due to Porteñas wearing a jean miniskirt and high heels at a busy intersection." I've been told it's an actual line in the statistics ministry's records. The same ministry which claims claims inflation is 0.7%.
But these Porteñas are just one more trap this city lays for you.
Monday, February 1, 2010
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.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Draining the old sea monster
Ladies and gentlemen, one would have never thought it possible, that they'd be able to survive on something that needs to float, but alas it's true! Argentines have taken to sea. Not just one either, but 120 vessels took to open waters from Buenos Aires to Punta del Este, in the Democratic People's Republic of Uruguay (DPRU). One of these Argentine seadogs told me they've been doing this for quite a while without anyone outside the Plata estuary ever taking notice or caring.
The chance to embark with a prehistoric people in their neolithic vessels seemed like the kind of adventure a Western social scientist would die for, so I immediately requested passage with one of the crews. Having been here for a few months my language skills are of course unparalleled being there only minor glitches in communication with these primitive sailors. It is really a testament to American education. The vessel belonged to the father, the son informed me. It would be just the three of us and the boat, they promised, was the jewel of the River. I hope these words were hastily spoken.
I know Charley woulda had a word about this exploit. Same thing he told me when somebody foolishly mailed him a cruise trip on a Mississippi steamboat for Veteran's Day.
"Yee ain' gawn see me on naw Satn' boat. Ah lahckeet dra with mah church and mah cornfiel' das rite!"
Charley only likes two types of gifts: socks and calendars. His rage was such that he didn't even have words for the postal service, which he hates with fervor. A boat full of Argentines? Can't fathom what he would've thought of me.
Stranger sea rites must not have been performed by the ancient Greeks while requesting safe passage. My skipper was fearfully adamant about me appearing at "Prefectura Naval Argentina" where shoddily uniformed lawmen demanded all sorts of information about our trip and scribbled illegibly on a piece of parchment. The parchment was then stowed away into a metal cabinet with tons of similar scrolls that remained untouched since the day they were stowed. Clearly this information was never to be reviewed again so let me hypothesize that the gray box was some kind of vessel for divine offerings. This I call the "God-Box Hypothesis." They would later make known their intention to drink my blood to steal US naval secrets. I narrowly saved my life convincing them that the US is a landlocked country with no navigable bodies of water.
Such behavior was hardly surprising. Argentine recreational activities are marred with superstitious ritual. For example, the coach of their national soccer team is an overweight leprechaun who is supposed to possess "The Hand of God" and even though the Argentine team has the most stars and top ranked players in the world it only barely qualified to the world cup, boasting what can only be described as neo-abstract forms of tactical formulation. Their faith in the leprechaun seems stronger than ever.
Thus commenced our sea adventure, a 180 nautical mile regatta of the third world in a 30ft raft with no mainsail outhaul or boom vang. My appreciation for the Polynesian peoples has grown exponentially. The first night was a clear indication that their confidence in divine offering was misplaced. Nature unleashed 30kt winds to express its malcontent and made it a headwind just to fuck with us. As I screamed to the skipper-man, while reefing the main, that I don't get sea sick the gods decided to punish me by piercing the gas-oil tank which promptly inundated the cabin with its perfume. It became impossible to sleep down below. My naps, when not on steering shift were spent napping in the cockpit with waves splashing over me but at least not getting stoned on diesel. Such was my first lesson on rickety third world craft.
The rest of the 38 hour experience was a rather pleasurable mixture of scenic Uruguayan coast, close encounters with commercial vessels lacking proper navigation lights and a glorious final approach to Punta del Este in the AM with a rising sun and 18kts of broad reach.
Our port of call, a peninsula where the tribal leaders of South America spend their summer seems to have been fortified to keep at bay the communist overlord who took over Uruguay. Therefore the Principality of Punta del Este conserves the glamor of the 70's and 80's. I am sure you all would have enjoyed it very much.
The chance to embark with a prehistoric people in their neolithic vessels seemed like the kind of adventure a Western social scientist would die for, so I immediately requested passage with one of the crews. Having been here for a few months my language skills are of course unparalleled being there only minor glitches in communication with these primitive sailors. It is really a testament to American education. The vessel belonged to the father, the son informed me. It would be just the three of us and the boat, they promised, was the jewel of the River. I hope these words were hastily spoken.
I know Charley woulda had a word about this exploit. Same thing he told me when somebody foolishly mailed him a cruise trip on a Mississippi steamboat for Veteran's Day.
"Yee ain' gawn see me on naw Satn' boat. Ah lahckeet dra with mah church and mah cornfiel' das rite!"
Charley only likes two types of gifts: socks and calendars. His rage was such that he didn't even have words for the postal service, which he hates with fervor. A boat full of Argentines? Can't fathom what he would've thought of me.
Stranger sea rites must not have been performed by the ancient Greeks while requesting safe passage. My skipper was fearfully adamant about me appearing at "Prefectura Naval Argentina" where shoddily uniformed lawmen demanded all sorts of information about our trip and scribbled illegibly on a piece of parchment. The parchment was then stowed away into a metal cabinet with tons of similar scrolls that remained untouched since the day they were stowed. Clearly this information was never to be reviewed again so let me hypothesize that the gray box was some kind of vessel for divine offerings. This I call the "God-Box Hypothesis." They would later make known their intention to drink my blood to steal US naval secrets. I narrowly saved my life convincing them that the US is a landlocked country with no navigable bodies of water.
Such behavior was hardly surprising. Argentine recreational activities are marred with superstitious ritual. For example, the coach of their national soccer team is an overweight leprechaun who is supposed to possess "The Hand of God" and even though the Argentine team has the most stars and top ranked players in the world it only barely qualified to the world cup, boasting what can only be described as neo-abstract forms of tactical formulation. Their faith in the leprechaun seems stronger than ever.
Thus commenced our sea adventure, a 180 nautical mile regatta of the third world in a 30ft raft with no mainsail outhaul or boom vang. My appreciation for the Polynesian peoples has grown exponentially. The first night was a clear indication that their confidence in divine offering was misplaced. Nature unleashed 30kt winds to express its malcontent and made it a headwind just to fuck with us. As I screamed to the skipper-man, while reefing the main, that I don't get sea sick the gods decided to punish me by piercing the gas-oil tank which promptly inundated the cabin with its perfume. It became impossible to sleep down below. My naps, when not on steering shift were spent napping in the cockpit with waves splashing over me but at least not getting stoned on diesel. Such was my first lesson on rickety third world craft.
The rest of the 38 hour experience was a rather pleasurable mixture of scenic Uruguayan coast, close encounters with commercial vessels lacking proper navigation lights and a glorious final approach to Punta del Este in the AM with a rising sun and 18kts of broad reach.
Our port of call, a peninsula where the tribal leaders of South America spend their summer seems to have been fortified to keep at bay the communist overlord who took over Uruguay. Therefore the Principality of Punta del Este conserves the glamor of the 70's and 80's. I am sure you all would have enjoyed it very much.
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