A Puppy Got Kicked, And Some Other Stuff Too (inside joke)

Many things have culminated in the last couple of weeks.  We experienced many frustrations and a few successes, and it’s hard to know where to begin.  The easiest place to start is the FSD weekend retreat to San Antonio de Areco that the eleven American girls participated in from Friday night to Sunday night.  Brett stayed in La Plata to advance a multimedia project that is integral to the deliverables we hope to achieve by the end of our seven weeks here.  I do not want to go into details on a public blog, but I will say this: Emily, Liana, and I (Emily first) requested to stay in La Plata to work with Brett and the women at the comedor this weekend, but our request was denied in absolute terms.  Had we decided not to attend this obligatory vacation, we would have faced termination from this FSD program.  Needless to say, Horacio urged us to go on the retreat to save the project and a so-called positive relationship with FSD.

The weekend itself was pleasant.  We arrived at the aptly named Hostel Gaucho on Friday night and enjoyed a delicious ravioli dinner served by the hostel owner herself.  We all turned in by 1 am after a good chat—early by Argentine standards, considering that clubs don’t open in San Antonio until 4 am—so that we could get our beauty sleep before the big day ahead.  The next morning we walked to a deluxe ranch and experienced everything gaucho.  Although, as our astute coworkers at Biosfera jested many times, this place was far too deluxe to showcase the reality of gaucho life.  I could tell as soon as I heard the first Beetles cover song over the cleverly hidden speakers that I was not truly in el campo (the countryside).  Nevertheless, the illusion worked its magic.  Upon our arrival, we went horseback riding through manicured fields, passing by some more modern artifacts: a mini-Jeep for mini gauchos, for instance.  My pony was slow but reliable.  Meaning, I consistently held up the rear of the horse train but at least my pony didn’t stop to eat the bushes like SOME other horses (Kelly calling “Ayuda! Ayuda!” from behind me was one of the most memorable moments).  We then took a hammock break with some delicious Argentine wine, which eventually turned into an asado lunch with empanada and chorizo appetizers.  Vegetarians beware!  After lunch, Liana and I were coerced into dancing foclore with several other more willing volunteers.  The day ended with a semi-beastiality presentation of the close relationship gauchos have with their horses, accompanied by a gentle flute rendition of the song “Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina.”  A profound cultural experience indeed.

Sunday was spent mostly exploring the town itself, although there’s not much to explore.  The best discovery was a little choclateria, where we nearly tripped over ourselves to buy gourmet homemade chocolate.  Chocolate is without some form of dulce de leche filling is rare—not to say I’m complaining!  Our FSD-sponsored lunch place for the day was a little cerveceria that only had three beers on tap (Disclaimer: FSD doesn’t cover drink tabs.  No lawsuits please.).  After meat and cheese picadas, Caroline and I stuck around for a while to enjoy the atmosphere.  One of the things that must be appreciated while here is the slow pace of life, and the personal nature of interaction.  People take time during work, during a commute, or even during their favorite TV show to talk and joke around.  I stay at work to visit with people until 8 PM or later every night.  My host mom will strike up a twenty-minute conversation with the bus driver even though she has never met him before in her life.  She said the city is a little family, although La Plata is far from small.  While the flexible definition of “on time” makes work a little difficult, it makes for an entirely liberating cultural experience.  The integrity of our goals remains the same here, but the means of achieving those goals is a slower, more reflective, more interpersonal road.  It makes me glad that I’m studying abroad next semester and not immediately returning to a more fast-paced, stressful environment at Wellesley.  The slower pace of life also gives me more space to reflect on the institutional difficulties I’ve been running up against, and wonder how bureaucracy imposed by international organization interferes with the pace of development in countries like Argentina. 

An Introduction to (Real) Development Work

We’re a week into our internship at Biosfera and my team is feeling a bit overwhelmed by the immensity of the task ahead.  Our supervisor Horacio requested, rather, suggested that we work with the comedor Estrategia de Caracol (which, oddly enough, translates to “Strategy of the Snail.”)  (I just found this out: the reason it is called Strategy of the Snail is because snails carry their homes on their backs, just like an immigrant family--very clever!) A comedor is a place where food is cooked and served to the poor.  Most comedors receive their food from the municipality, although some also receive money stipends in exchange for political favors.  Caracol receives food that nearly 80 families depend on; however, it functions proudly without money from the municipality.  Yet it is still affiliated with a political organization called the Movimiento de Trabajadores Desempleados (Movement of Unemployed Workers).  The Movimiento is probably the most powerful organization in this poor immigrant settlement aside from the municipality itself.  I should note that neither MTD nor the municipality can be trusted to provide aid without strings attached: for example, if someone at the comedor refused to participate in a strike or protest staged by MTD, s/he would probably lose her job.  As a result, the different political loyalties make it nearly impossible for the comedors to work together despite the fact that there are several functioning within blocks of each other.  (Picture below is of the comedor from the street)

After reading the previous passage, you may imagine you have a fairly good grasp of the political complexities of this comedor.  However, the reality is that I heard those facts in conjunction with evidence that portrayed the total opposite.  It’s possible that I am completely and utterly wrong.  Furthermore, it’s possible that it doesn’t matter.  Even the locals who work at Biosfera don’t understand the political situation and yet they have still implemented successful projects.  Instead of doing a political analysis, we’re here to develop an environmentally-friendly and economically sustainable project within the next six weeks.  One of the biggest challenges for me is understanding that I can’t fix this community, as much as I want to try.  All of my training tells me to visualize the whole problem so that I can find a solution.  But the problem is so complex, our time so short, and our resources so limited that we have to be realistic.  I’m just hoping that realistic is not synonymous with narrow-minded.

Other than working at Biosfera and the comedor, I also have managed to squeeze in some important “cultural research” in the past week.  Ahem. Okay, I’m talking about fútbol!  I went to the Gimnasia vs. Gimnasia game on Sunday afternoon with the eleven other Americans on our trip and some of our host brothers, and then went with my Biosfera team and some Argentine friends to the Estudiantes final Wednesday night.  Soccer here goes beyond obsession!  The Estudiantes game was HUGE--los Estudiantes are the better team and they were playing Brazil in the final championships.  People literally sang battle songs at the top of their lungs, interspersed with frequent profanities (like “hijo de puta!” or “la concha de tu madre!” for those who are interested).  Everybody was wearing red and white for the team, and before the game, people were setting off fireworks and throwing shredded newspaper until I couldn’t even see the playing field.  The game I went to was pretty tame because nobody scored—at all—but all the precautions were still taken to protect the other team’s fans.  Like, for example, fans for Brazil sat in their own guarded section and were required to exit the stadium after all the Estudiantes fans had vacated the premises.  The police screen people before they come into the stadium to check for drunkenness and/or weapons.  Craazy!  The Gimnasia game was much less well attended, but at least La Plata won.  Let’s just hope I don’t get killed for posting that blasphemous comment online.

All this cultural research is definitely paying off in the end, through the fun and interesting people I’ve become friends with and the great strides I’ve made in speaking Castellano.  I remember walking into Spanish class this last semester and feeling like the switch from English to Español was very unnatural.  I had to consciously translate my thoughts into Spanish before I said them aloud.  After one week in Argentina, one major change I’ve noticed in myself is how normal I feel to be surrounded by Castellano.  This afternoon, for instance, I started reading a document in Castellano and didn’t realize it wasn’t in English until a few paragraphs in.  Make no mistake—there’s still A LOT that I don’t understand! I’ve just accepted that I live in a state of constant confusion.  Luckily, I’m surrounded by people who looove to correct my Castellano.  At work, our friend Manuel helps me out by teaching me lunfardo (slang).  At night, my host mom will sit down with me with Castellano-English dictionaries in both hands to help bolster my vocabulary.  The language barrier doesn’t make developing a project any easier, but bit by bit it’s coming down.  Plus, people generally think it’s endearing that I’m trying to communicate in their native language, if badly.  Self-deprecation is my best friend.  (Picture below is of my host parents and Oana, the other intern from Stanford who overlapped briefly with me in Miriam's house)

I have to rant a little bit at how amazing this experience has been so far. Miriam is really easy to talk to and she has offered a lot of insight into our project, since she’s hosted FSD interns before and lives very close to the comedor.  She and her family have very generously given me a room of my own, bigger than my room at home (although, for those of you don’t know, my room at home is best described as cozy).  I eat delicious food like empanadas and milanesa every day—I would hate to be a vegetarian here, the meat is that good—and the people I work with at Biosfera are hilarious and so so so nice.  Lunch at Biosfera is one of my favorite times of day: picture 15 twenty-somethings from all over the world having a great time trying to communicate in our one common language.  At the comedor, I’m starting to make friends with the 16-year old Ramona who watches over the bread while it bakes.  She moved here from Paraguay with her mom, leaving her father and brother behind, giving her an independent streak and a wicked sense of humor.  The other day, the other FSD intern at the comedor rather condescendingly told her to not put any more wood in the fire when he came in to check the bread.  As soon as he left, she glanced conspiratorially at me before she tossed a few more sticks in the fire, making clear who knows how to run the oven best!

In sum, I’m feeling like the luckier one in this exchange so far, with all my grand plans for being as industrious as possible being frustrated by the slow progress that is characteristic of development work. I’m hoping that somehow I’ll be able to teach and help the people I’ve met as much as they have taught me.