Crystal Clear.

In this past month, I have acquired a new name, la china (pronounced 'chee-na' instead of 'chi-na'). One thing to note about the Argentine understanding of Asians: as long as you have black hair and small, squinty eyes, you are china. As such, the Koreans and Japanese (whose communities are smaller and less cohesive than the Chinese) receive no distinction in Buenos Aires. Simply put, every Asian is Chinese. Prior to this trip, I have frequently been mistaken for Japanese or Korean, so that the Argentines correctly identify my Chinese ethnicity (albeit for lack of knowing better), is a great feeling. Moreover, this strong identification is linked to the great waves of Chinese immigration: the first in the 1980s from Taiwan, and the second group hailing from Fujian Province in the 1990s. While these groups ventured to Argentina and greater Latin America for distinctive reasons, the Argentines have come to view them as a homogenous group. A group that dominates the second tier supermarket business in Buenos Aires today. The supermercados chinos, each under a different family name, have become all too popular with the porteños, and myself. Every four to five days, I visit a different supermercado for fruits, seeking the house with the lowest prices (because I'm so Asian, no?).

Even though I'm thousands of miles away from the United States and China, I've come to think of myself having a 'backup' community here in Buenos Aires; a group with whom I can speak Spanish, Chinese and even Spanise (I'm getting creative). When I'm walking among the masses in the streets, the Argentines never cease to remind me of my ethnicity, 'ay, china', 'sos una china', 'mira, la china'. Yes, it's painstakingly evident that I don't blend in among the European faces, but during these past four weeks, I've loved the feeling of standing out, and being recognized as such. Si, soy china y eso me da mucho orgullo.

Borderline.

I've never thought (no, scratch that), seen as much water as I did last weekend. Last Thursday evening, a few friends and I embarked on a 20 hour journey through city and campo, headed for the infamous waterfalls of Iguazu, which are (miraculously) shared by Argentina and Brazil. If there's only one place you could visit in Argentina, the porteños say, it's Iguazu Falls. Four times the width of Niagara Falls, with 275 cascades spread over two miles along the Iguazu River, this natural wonder borderlined reality and fantasy. Green path after green path led to various falls throughout the park, but the most marvelous of them all was the Devil's Throat (Garganta del Diablo).




Garganta del Diablo.

Words cannot parallel the physical magnitude of these waterfalls, so this entry will end in a series of photographs. Enjoy!




Amy, Tiffany and I at Garganta del Diablo.

Socialism and Peanut Butter.

The academic side of this experience is underway. I've previewed (we're currently in "shopping period" for classes) three classes thus far, and the experience has proven more difficult than I'd anticipated. The two I sampled at UBA (the University of Buenos Aires) turned out to be seminars for Argentine students finishing up their carrera (major). The challenge in testing out these waters was both daunting and thrilling, but I opted for the former; I'm not one to usually place academics on the back burner, but I was digging myself a little too deep. This morning's three and a half hour lecture, pure lecture in Spanish, was horror. I understood the majority of the lecture alright, but it was a combination of factors: the 60 some year old professor's quiet and monotonous voice, a cacophony of yelling, honking and clatter in the streets, and incessant sneezing and coughing, that made the classroom experience simply horrible. So, I took a little siesta (nap). UBA, the largest university by enrollment (300,000 plus) in Latin America, has no campus. I'm studying at Ciencias Sociales (the Social Sciences Building), one of 13 faculty buildings scattered throughout the city. The building's interior is not decorated with plaques of academic achievement or the like, but covered instead, with thousands of colorful political posters and notices.




Socialist and communist propaganda filled the halls. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen, and the overwhelming evidence of student participation in political activism stirred so much excitement within me. With less than 15 minutes left in class, two students entered, with little hesitation, to advocate and distribute the school's Socialist Paper. The liberty with which the students acted and dignified their ideas was honorable (politics aside), to say the least.

Now, where does peanut butter fit into this scheme? Well, it doesn't. Shortly after arriving in Buenos Aires, I had been told of some nonsense that peanut butter doesn't exist here. And then, other sources spoke otherwise, so I decided to embark on a mini journey in search of 'manteca de mani'. A few hours ago, I wandered into a store that carried only imported food products, and lo and behold, there was peanut butter (in English) sitting on the shelf.

What a day.

Destination-less.

I've just returned from the campo (countryside) in San Antonio de Areco. It's a northern town in the province of Buenos Aires, about 70 miles from the capital city. As described by the program's coordinators, the intent of the two-day, one night trip to the remote fields of Argentina, was to see another 'face' of Argentina. For the foreigner, the city is marvelous in unique and infinite ways. Two days ago, I learned the same of the campo. Shortly after our arrival, we embarked on a guided tour of San Antonio. The silence that was our group was frequently shattered by ferocious barking and growling from several stray dogs. Underfed and irritated, they ambled among us, nudging their dirty bodies against ours. What did they know? Moreover, what did they expect from us? We were just as lost as them. Although I was familiar with the countryside scene, its simplicity and bareness was slightly unnerving.




The above scenes were taken a few miles outside the town itself. It was a perfect meeting of happy and sad (to borrow the words of a friend back home), the air both fresh and unpleasant, and the fields lonely yet abundant with life. I loved every moment of walking along the dirt path, with no known or planned destination. By contrast, the city is all about destination. Neither the Subte, the colectivo or taxi can take you 'nowhere'. Being 'nowhere' is the greatest feeling, because it isn't someone else's place, an established territory or a place of judgment. We judge too often and fail to see places, people and ideas in their natural light. That day, I met the true Argentine campo, and it was a pleasure.

Wine Fever.

This is the last week of orientation and my classes at FLACSO and the University of Buenos Aires begin Monday. While the city has kept the rain at bay, the past few days have been unexpectedly frigid. As sure as I was of never being the one with a scarf -wrapped face, well to say the least, I was wrong. But as I've trudged through Chicago and Maine's wintry landscapes, Buenos Aires will be a walk (as the winters are snow-less). In this past week, I've contributed generously to local businesses and stores along Avenida Santa Fe (Chicago's Michigan Avenue equivalent), marveling at the affordability of everything the States have, but cannot match. I imagine (or hope) that when classes start, my binge spending will be overcast by books. This past weekend was jam-packed with activities; we took a short-lived trip to La Boca (a neighborhood that lines the province's southeastern edge). I say short-lived (as most Argentines would also say) because La Boca is essentially only known for its 2 block diameter main square. The multi-colored stores, restaurants and tango spectacular provide an unimaginable contrast to the decrepit houses and deserted, trash-lined streets outside the square.





Definitely a must-see, La Boca. But once is enough. The rest of the weekend was dominated by plenty of fine Argentine wine. Malbec, a product of the Mendoza region, is one of many images that has become synonymous with Argentina. Cheers to a journey well underway, and cheers to the Paris of the South!