Clash of the Continents pt. 2: Argentina Strikes Back

In the second installment of this season’s South American Clash of the Continents, I will attempt to bore you to death with a breakdown of some key differences between the Spanish and English language. I’m doing this because I legitimately care about your education and want you to succeed when you finally grow up and fulfill your dream of becoming the world’s first bilingual ostrich jockey. It would truly be an honor to have one of those in the family to complement Uncle Dan’s career as a pet food taster, or Odd Aunt Pam’s “calling” as a phone psychic. You see kids, with the proper education, you too can make terrible puns. As before, the quality of these idiomatic peculiarities will be based on the MADs, or Martin Avoids Death, system, where 1 MADs indicates my belief that George R.R. Martin will suffer a tragic cheeseburger-related accident in the next year, and 10 MADs indicates that, in a gluttonous rage, Mr. Martin found and drank the entire Fountain of Youth, ensuring his immortality and a positively crippling case of Giardia.

THINGS ARGENTINA GOT RIGHT:

1. Ginger Butt Slap

Despite being an excellent name for an indie rock band, the Ginger Butt Slap (henceforth GBS) refers to a little-used cultural oddity in Argentina. When one witnesses a ginger (“Colorado” here, or literally “Colored one”) in the street, it is considered wise to quickly slap one’s own ass (discretely!) This is done to mitigate the chance of being cursed with Ginger Juju, which as we are all aware, is a very real problem. That being said, this custom is incredibly uncommon, and could very well be something my host mother made up to confuse the naïve little Yankee living in her house. But if you ever see me quickly slap my backside when Ron Weasley passes by, you should probably point and laugh at me. But do so with the realization that my chances of developing Gingervitis are miniscule because of this ritual. 5 MADs to the GBS for being both mildly offensive and a great name for an indie rock band.

2. Cheta

Never has a word been so wonderfully nuanced as the slang term “Cheta.” There isn’t a direct translation to English, but think of as “stuck-up, wealthy girl who is too good to talk to you.” There is also a male breed of the same thing called a “Cheto,” and fortunately for the human race, Chetos and Chetas only breed amongst themselves. The Chetas natural habitats include clubs, high-end bars, and anywhere a wealthy older man might be. Attempting a conversation with a Cheta is not advised. Although they are not dangerous alone, they are easily provoked and can pose a threat in groups. Their North American cousin, the Guido, is significantly more aggressive, but the two groups share a common ancestry. This writer is hesitant to point fingers, but Italy is over there trying to hide itself under the rest of Europe and is looking awfully guilty. 7 MADs to the word “Cheta” because it doesn’t need you; Daddy already took care of everything and Daddy has a better job than you anyway.

3. Remandola en dulce de leche

Quite possibly the best (appropriate) phrase I’ve learned while here is “Estoy remandola en dulce de leche,” which literally translates to “I’m rowing her in dulce de Leche.” For those of you who don’t know what dulce de leche is, I highly recommend escorting yourself to the nearest Latino shopping area and screaming “Dool-Say Day Lay-Che” at the top of your lungs until someone shoves a spoonful in your mouth to shut you up. Think syrup, but thicker and infinitely worse for you. Sadly, a dulce de leche lake is as mythical as Captain Ryan’s sailing credentials, and no one actually rows in it. The phrase loosely translates to “A person who is trying to get a crush to date him/her, but will ultimately fail, wasting his/her time.” For example, two years ago I was “rowing Natalie Portman in dulce de leche.” I want everyone to stop and think about the gravity of that admission and really pat me on the back for doing so. 9 MADs to “Remandola en dulce de leche” for allowing me to pretend like I’m moving on from Natalie Portman.

THINGS THE UNITED STATES GOT RIGHT:

1. Awkward

The word “awkward” doesn’t exist in Spanish. There is no direct translation, which is a shame because I can confirm without a doubt that awkward situations do occur in Spanish. The best part is that trying to explain what “awkward” means in Spanish is quite literally an awkward situation in itself. After many attempts using a variety of techniques, I’ve learned that the best way to depict the definition of “awkward” to a foreigner is to stand as close to them as possible, grunting and gesticulating wildly, until they back away. Then you calmly explain that the odd mix of dread, uncomfortable, and pity they just felt was “awkward.” Finally, do the whole process again to really drive the definition home. For added fun, refuse to explain the definition of “awkward” except in social situations with “You Spin Me Right Round (Like a Record)” playing in the background. 6 MADs to the word “awkward,” whose definition inevitably acts as a self-fulfilling prophecy.

2.   Lack of genders

The one thing I’ve never quite understood about many other languages is the use of genders to describe inanimate objects. It makes perfect sense to use them to describe people, as the words “Prima” or “Amigo” explain a lot more about the subject than “Cousin” or “Friend.” But there’s no reason that the genders need to extend to inanimate objects, especially when there’s little reason behind the assigned gender of an object. A dish is masculine while a spoon is feminine. Ok, that’s not so bad. We have nursery rhymes about that. A gun is masculine, while a bullet is feminine. Alright, that’s a little odd. Why not make all of the component parts the same gender? And don’t get me started on the names of male genitalia. Like in every language, there are a thousand ways to refer to a man’s “Little Juan” in Spanish, but a disproportionately high number of those euphemisms are feminine. Baffling. 8 MADs to English for doing away with superfluous genders and making the questions, “Wait, male or female friend?” necessary.

3. Speak of the Devil

“Speak of the Devil” is a great phrase. Spanish has its variation too, which is “Hablando de Roma, el burro se asoma.” Respect must be granted to Spanish for making their version rhyme, but “speaking of Rome, the donkey appeared,” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. For one, if you’re talking trash about someone and they show up, I imagine they’d rather be compared to the Devil than to an ass. At least the Devil is wily, powerful, and an accomplished violinist. A donkey is only good for carrying things and depressing little Christopher Robin. Secondly, there’s at least a little mystique associated with the devil; if you talk about him, he might appear. Talking about Rome will just attract a bunch of college kids who would love to tell you about Roman history and how umbrella salesmen are a plague on humanity. Miserable. 9 MADs to the phrase “Speak of the Devil” for making me feel like I have the power to delay George R.R. Martin’s death when I interrupt people talking about me.

Rob Unto Others

2:30 AM, Wednesday, CTG Headquarters

“Alright, everyone, let’s sit down and start this meeting. As usual, we will kick things off with the Cordoba Thieves Guild Pledge, so if everyone could please repeat after me:

‘On my honor, I will do my best, to do my duty to rob others of their material possessions. I will do so in a manner that brings honor to our cause by preying on the weak, inebriated, and foreign. I will wear my Choro Badge with pride and never consider the consequences of my actions.’

“I’d like to open by stating how proud I am of our recent accomplishments. This past summer, I was worried about the state of the CTG. Although we managed to rob one girl, the students of the University of Blas Pascal went about their business largely unmolested. Although I appreciate the huevos it took to rob a foreign girl walking alone, the quantity of robberies was…well, lacking. That said, thanks to the efforts of Pablo, Esteban, Pancho, and Bobo, we’ve had a stellar month of May. Really, I can’t thank these four enough for really turning up the heat on these foreign students when classes are getting tough. Taking advantage of your target's weaknesses is what this Guild is all about!”

“For those of you who haven’t heard about the good deeds of these four, allow me briefly recount them. We ask that you hold your applause until the end. First, Pablo, who has received the Thief’s Cross for his valor, robbed a girl in the street. However, a robbery alone does not earn one the Thief’s Cross. Pablo proceeded to assault the girl when she resisted. Pablo showed bravery in the face of the near-insurmountable danger of an unarmed woman. He really demonstrated that CTG spirit. Congratulations Pablo.”

“Next, Bobo kept with the theme and helped Esteban rob a different girl in the street. Despite an assault, I’m afraid we cannot award Bobo with a medal because he did not mentally break his target and she continues to have a positive disposition. Nevertheless, we should all be proud of Bobo’s work. Thank you Bobo.”

“Finally, in an act of bravery bordering on stupidity, Esteban and Pancho managed to do what was previously thought impossible: they robbed the same foreigner twice. One night, they broke into his house and stole the majority of his valuables, and then followed it up with a robbery in the streets. All told, they took every meaningful piece of his technology and nearly broke his spirit. I don’t know how they came up with this twisted plot, but they have been awarded the Thief’s Screw, the Guild’s highest honor for thoroughly screwing someone over. What assholes! Let’s all give these great thieves a round of applause!”

“In closing, I would like to encourage everyone to be mindful of their surroundings when out mugging tonight. The foreigners are now aware of our presence and likely a little more agitated than before. Please use caution during robberies. Remember to travel in pairs, stick to poorly lit areas, and never target anyone who deserves it. After all, we’re upstanding thieves here at the Cordoba Thieves Guild; corruption and large-scale robbery is the government's job. This meeting is adjourned. Have a blessed evening!

Notes:

1.     These four robberies really did occur. No one was critically injured, but a lot of goods were lost. I imagine a lot of faith in humanity was lost too.

2.     All in all, Cordoba is still a pretty safe city.

3.     We’ll return to a more light-hearted post this week.

4.     And hopefully I’ll actually get that post done this week.

5.     Don’t be assholes. 

The Alpha and the Amoebas

Lamentably, it’s been a while since I’ve recounted to the public my thrilling tales of student life in Argentina. I’ll attribute this primarily to my inability to use the English language anymore; Spanish has taken the place of many words and phrases. If my English was a well-constructed brick house, Spanish is the drunken sub-contractor replacing my quality bricks with toasted cow pies. The structural integrity is still there, but it’s not quite as pretty as it used to be, and it would probably smell bad in the rain. Now that I’ve completely derailed that metaphor, the secondary reason for my absence was spring break. I went to a town in the mountains called La Cumbre. It was lovely, you should have come. And the tertiary reason for my delay in posting was due to a rekindling of my romance with Bidet. For those of you who are a little slow on the uptake (it’s OK, Mommy still loves you for tax-refund purposes), I was struck by Argentinian lightning again and got food poisoning. To answer the burning question, and let me assure that I now know a good bit about burning sensations, no, I don’t know what caused Round 2 of Super Smash Bowels. But it did make my trip to the mountains a little more exciting. 

Friday morning of spring break, soon after waking up, my tutor Tomas informs me that we’re going to La Cumbre. This in itself was fine because I had been expecting the trip, and the food poisoning was more or less gone. I’m sure it is anxiously waiting to strike again next month in the form of a bad pickle, though. I was informed that I had 20 minutes to get ready, and that his cousin Santiago, our driver, was in a hurry to get to a family lunch. I threw some clothes and things in my bag, said a hasty goodbye to Bidet, and was greeted promptly 20 minutes after the phone call. I’m convinced it was the first and last instance of punctuality in Argentina, and I savored it like a thick slab of unicorn meat with a blue moon. The astronomical occurrence, not the beer. Although the beer would go well with unicorn steak too.

I had ridden with Santiago once before, and I wouldn’t describe the experience as particularly frightening or Bidet-inducing. He liked to drive fast, but he was controlled, and I felt safe. This time, whether because of the diminished intestinal fortitude, or because I had taken stock of my mortality a few weeks prior, or because he was really hungry, Santiago nearly scared the literal shit out of me. I’m not going to say we were going over 100 miles per hour just outside the city, but we were going over 160 kilometers per hour just outside the city. The nail-biting terror that parents feel when their child first learns how to drive and is doing 25 mph in a 20 mph zone? I finally understand that, except I couldn’t do anything because all of my spare energy was spent safeguarding the one pair of pants I brought on the trip so they didn’t get ruined before we arrived. Thankfully, we made it alive, not terribly late, and only one of us had to run to the restroom upon arrival. Tune in next time to find out if Captain Ryan soiled his pants like a 2 year-old or retained the last tattered shreds of his dignity!

Notes:

1.     What’s dignity?

2.     I don’t know whose grave I defiled to earn two bouts of food poisoning, but damn Argentina, cut me some slack. I like Bidet, but not that much. And she hates it when I’m needy.

3.     Santiago really is quite a talented driver. That doesn’t mean I trust the other motorists though.

4.     La Cumbre was awesome. Mountain biking, hiking, and hoodratting were the primary activities in which we participated.

5.     Some of the motorists in La Cumbre probably were not happy with us. For a single payment of $19.95, I’ll tell you why in a private conversation! Hint: It involves fruit and climbing trees.

La Guerra

El sargento Márquez nos dirigió hacía la fortaleza. Como un veterano de más de cincuenta batallas, él era quien tenía más experiencia en nuestro batallón. El Teniente Bolloqui y el Cabo Sironi también tenían experiencia en el campo de batalla, pero su sed de sangre no era tan fuerte como la del Sargento Márquez. Era evidente, aunque era mi primera batalla, que el Sargento estaba en su hogar en medio de violencia. Me alegré de que él estuviera con nosotros; su presencia calmó poco mis nervios. Sin embargo, tenía miedo y el ambiente en el fuerte era frenético. La mayoría de los otros soldados eran veteranos como el Sargento Márquez y las fuerzas especiales, cuyos uniformes se hicieron distintivos, eran aún más fanáticas que mi líder. El Sargento Márquez nos indicó nuestros puestos en el fuerte. Esperamos. Algunos soldados cantaban, algunos otros oraban a Dios por la victoria, y el resto esperaba con ansiedad. En ese tiempo, me asustaban más nuestros propios soldados que el enemigo.

Cambié de idea cuando el enemigo apareció. Como hormigas derramándo se delante de un hormiguero, los otros llegaron al campo de batalla y tomaron sus posiciones. Pero nuestra vanguardia estuvo listo para atacarles, y la batalla empezó. Nuestro ejército era más grande y tenía más experiencia en ese ambiente, pero el enemigo era feroz. En cierts momentos, los otros llegaron muy cerca del fuerte. Los gritos y la sed de sangre aumentaron dentro de nuestras filas en esos momentos, pero una y otra vez, los repelíamos con éxito. ¡Qué feos eran! Se vestían de blanco como salvadores, pero era obvio que eran demonios. Ellos querían destruir nuestros hogares, nuestras familias y nuestro fuerte, pero éramos más fuertes. A pesar de sus ataques de artillería, algunos de los cuales me ensordecieron y de que prendieron fuego en el fuerte, nos mantuvimos firme.

Después de casi una hora, hubo un calma. Yo estaba confundido.

“¿Se terminó la batalla, Sargento?” Él se rió.

“No, soldado raso. El enemigo se está reagrupando. La batalla va a reanudarse pronto.”

El miedo debe haber sido evidente en mi cara.

“No te preocupes, García. Vamos a ganar. No tengo dudas.”

Aunque el Sargento Márquez no tenía dudas, todavía me preocupaba. Yo dudaba de tener la fuerza y la intensidad para ser un soldado grande como Márquez. Pero al mismo tiempo, tenía ganas de luchar una vez más. Cuando el enemigo reapareció, estaba listo para proteger el fuerte con mi vida.

Sus ataques de artillería comenzaron de nuevo, pero el enemigo se desvaneció poco a poco. Eramos más resistentes, y no mucho tiempo después, dimos un golpe paralizante a su ejército. Todos los soldados en el fuerte supieron a la vez y celebramos la victoria inminente. Me da vergüenza decir que la única herida que sufrí durante la batalla fue un golpe de un amigo durante esa celebración. Tuvimos que volver a la batalla poco después, pero los soldados  del enemigo estaban agotados y en una hora, fueron vencidos. Habíamos ganado la batalla. Por primera vez en más que tres horas, me relajé.

“Bien hecho, soldado raso García. Sobreviviste a tu primera batalla. Sos un soldado real ahora.”

“¡Mil gracias, Sargento Márquez! ¡Me divertí!”

Estábamos en extasis la victoria. Nos fuimos del Estadio Mario Alberto Kempes. Club Atlético Talleres había derrotado a Juventud Antoniano uno a cero. Si esa es la vida de una hincha, tengo ganas de ser un de ellos.

The Sweet Embrace of Near Death

If we’re all being honest with ourselves, the opportunities that the world has to kill us during the course of a normal day are staggeringly high. Mortality is frightening though, and we try to push those thoughts out of our minds so that we aren’t absolutely crippled with fear. Most people have a limit at which the potential risk of snuggling with the earthworms outweighs the potential enjoyment of a given activity. With apologies to you all for that somber interlude, and even more apologies to my parents who might have to go to Rent-A-Son for graduation this December (Kidding! I hope!), we’re going to take a quiz on the danger level of this past weekend’s activities. Initial betting is strongly encouraged; the status of my life insurance policy is currently “Don’t Die” and someone might as well make some money off of me if I do kick the bucket. Of the following four options, please choose what you consider to be the most dangerous. Remember, there are no wrong answers:

1.     Horse race on an unpaved road

2.     Local soccer game

3.     Talking to strangers

4.     Riding in the back of a pickup truck

If you chose “Talking to strangers,” you clearly misunderstand how study abroad works, and, for all intents and purposes, have chosen the wrong answer. You will be taking Communication 100: Remedial Communication Studies, Emphasis on Throat Noises and Mouth Movements. Everyone else may continue reading to learn which of the remaining three choices is the most dangerous. The answer may surprise you. But it probably won’t.

3. Coming in at third place on the mortality scale is “Riding in the back of a pickup truck.” While this is very much illegal and very much something I sort of think about not doing once in a while, the convenience factor is too large to ignore. Sometimes our driver is even responsible. Ok, not really, since we managed to fit 17 people into the truck that one time and drove for 30 minutes. Ha, I’m just kidding! It was 18 people and the ride was significantly longer. I’m such a scamp! But we’re all still alive, so no one back home should get mad at me or consider taking me out of their will for violating that “grossly negligent” clause we discussed before I left. Not yet at least. There’s more to read.

2. In second place is “Horse race on an unpaved road,” and it was jockeying hard for first. I’m sure that pun made some of you wish the race had offed me, but the horse was strong with me that day. And yes, I have been waiting weeks to bust that one out, thank you for asking. Anyway, there’s not really much to say about this one. Two of us may have raced horses. The horses may have run into each other one time. The other racer may have almost got thrown once or twice. Someone’s horse may have relieved itself at a particularly inappropriate post-race juncture. Just a standard Sunday afternoon in Argentina as far as I can tell.

1. The dark horse candidate (still got it.) for this competition was the soccer game, because Americans tend to associate sporting events with belligerently drunk, rowdy fans. American games miss the crucial part of many worldwide soccer games, which is militant violence. To set the stage, I went to a soccer game with three Cordobeses (people who know what they’re doing). This was not a Superclasico (think USC vs. Clemson), nor was it a Clasico (think Clemson vs. FSU). It was just a standard league game, something along the lines of a Clemson vs. Wake Forest, and the stands were only half full. Knowing all that, I thought it would be a mild affair, even if we were sitting with the hinchas (hooligans) and it was standing room only. I thought like an idiot; I should have brought my riot gear and extra-absorbent nappies.  Our tickets, courtesy of my brave, miraculously-still-alive friend Emi, were bought from the mafia, which, I cannot stress enough, was an actual mafia that actually kills people. During the first half, a couple flares were lit. No big deal, I’ve seen that happen on TV. Then someone threw a few noise grenades. Then someone threw a few more noise grenades 10 feet from us. I think I was disoriented by halftime because everyone else seemed very much unconcerned, while I had a sinking feeling in my diaper. By the end of the game, I had survived 4 close encounters with the grenades, and my head was bleeding from an encounter with an exuberant hincha when we scored a goal. You’d better believe I’m going back.

Notes:

1.     Horses are fun, but I still think they’re some of the dumbest, most terrifying creatures alive. Whoever decided that breeding a breakneck tank around that much stupidity was a good idea must have been part horse himself.

2.     The more I examine that activities I do, the more I think I’m turning into a redneck. I’m only a Bud Light and a Confederate Flag tattoo away from a full conversion.

3.     I swear everything is probably safer than I make it out to be.

4.     The soccer game was amazing. I’m terrified to think about what would happen if I went to a game that was sold out.

5.     There is no 5. I’m just happy to be alive.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream Because We Had Too Much Wine

 

This past weekend marked our first overnight group trip, which means it was also the first time the Porteños (people from Buenos Aires) raised the terrorism alert level from Green to Orange this year. Those poor bastards. In hopes of capturing a historical moment in the destruction of American-Porteño relations, I decided to keep scrupulous tabs on the trip and how likely we were to be imprisoned. However, after learning that I was functionally illiterate following the bus ride to Buenos Aires, I decided to keep scrupulous tabs on myself because that seemed like something most 3-year olds could accomplish. I broke down my wellbeing into ability to speak Spanish, capacity to walk short distances unaided, desire to maim, incapacitate, or commit manslaughter, and miscellaneous, which changed depending on the day. After reading this, I’m sure you will all agree that I had no business being out in public by Sunday; by most definitions I was a walking hate crime, and we should all thankful that food has a calming effect on me.

Thursday Night, 10:00 PM.

Everything is sunshine and puppies at the bus terminal. I’m running on a legitimate amount of sleep, and I have just eaten. I dread the bus ride because I’m statistically more likely to be struck by lightning while winning the lottery than sleep in a vehicle, but I will not be daunted. I will curl up in a ball and cry my way through this bus ride like a man, and tomorrow I will sustain myself with caffeine, food, and more crying. Your move, Buenos Aires.

Spanish Ability: 9/10. Puedo hablar muy bien ahora, gracias!
Physical Capacity to Walk: 10/10. Put my legs in, coach. I’m ready to sit.

Murderous Intent: 3/10. I’ve been told that buses are inanimate, but I would consider shivving one in the radiator right now if there were a better travel option.

Body Odor: 3/10. My dinner featured heavily in garlic and onions. I expect disgruntled passengers by the end of the night. Nevertheless, I showered today and recently applied deodorant. Am I not merciful?

Friday Night, 10:00 PM.

It was a Christmas miracle. I managed to sleep on the bus for 4 hours, which may have saved the lives of upwards of 300 Porteños. Today we toured a lot, and I would consider my legs significantly shot, but for dinner we were served wine. I think there was food too, but my memory is hazy at this point, and the bottle is only half finished. I’m telling myself it’s an insult in Argentine culture to leave that bottle unfinished, because that’s what my inner frat boy is telling me, and sometimes I can’t differentiate between the two. They just look and sound so much alike, you know?

Spanish Ability: 15/10. Che hombre, debemos salir al boliche por toda la noche, boludo! Estoy gracias en la casa de tu mama, jaja! Verdad.

Physical Capacity to Walk: 0/10. What strength I had left after the tour has safely been eliminated by the wine. Jesús, take the wheel. Safely in your weathered taxi-driving hands.

Murderous Intent: 1/10. Unless it’s a crime to commit wineslaughter, I’m innocent of all charges, occifer.

Kidney Defense: 10/10. My kidneys have remained secure in my back region, and my newfound technique of spinning around violently and at random intervals ensures that no thief will have an easy time of cutting them free. I’m watching you, Jesús the cabdriver…

Saturday Night, 10:00 PM.

Alright, judging by the people around me, I’m pretty sure I’m still in Argentina. And we’re at dinner again, so that means I’m in the right group, because I’m pretty sure we’re always eating. But oh god, no, that waitress person is coming straight for me, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s probably going to speak Spanish at me. No, no, I can handle this. I got 5 hours of sleep last night. And there’s somehow more wine in this country, even though I’m convinced our group drank literally all of it last night. Wine sustain me, here goes nothing.

Spanish Ability: 5/10. Me darías un bistec con almohada por favor? También me gusta ir a la playa durante calabaza, de nada. Verdado. Nailed it.
Physical Capacity to Walk: 3/10. More sitting today has ensured that my legs still function. The wine is again attempting to sabotage this ability, but I will not be denied. There are stairs to climb at the hotel, and I remember that fact tonight.

Murderous Intent: 4/10. I killed it when I bought this dashing long-sleeved collared shirt! I may strangle someone with it too if I don’t get 6 hours of sleep tonight.

Ebonics Learned: 9/10. Although my delivery is stilted and still very much in the “Honkey” spectrum of the dialect, I have learned some key phrases like “She’s giving me Christmas,” and “I’m not about that life.” Damn, it feels phenomenal to be a gangster.

Sunday Night, 10:00 PM.

On bus. Go home now. Word hard. Spanish fail. Sleep bueno.

Spanish Ability: -2/10. No, YOU shut up and give me the hamburguesa with queso, por favor!  Does no one speak American around here!?

Physical Capacity to Walk: 0/10. I believe I was carried to my bus seat. There is no conformation of this aside from the shoulder marks embedded in my stomach. Those could be from anything.

Murderous Intent: 9/10. In most countries, I would be considered feral right now and put down for society’s sake. Thankfully, I’m not in most countries.

Bus Loathing: 9^3/4 /10. Ha, Harry Potter. Nailed it again.