Authentic Argentina

Blue Bell ice-cream: Cintia's favorite in Tucuman Argentina

Cerro and mate at tea time in Tucuman

Sunday Asado at Cintia's house

XII Fiesta Provincial del Caballo, Municipalidad de Trancas

Comida de Hugo

Not in My Guidebook

I watched with a mixture of disbelief, disgust, and awe as he took a large swig of lighter fluid and walked into the intersection, two identical balls of fire hanging by his side, his hands fiercely gripping the chains that led to the spitting fire. The traffic light was red and Hugo, the performer, conducted his dance with the fire until the light changed. Swinging the flaming balls of fire up over his head and around, again and again, exhaling at last and letting out a breath of fire, the finale of his performance, he nonchalantly bowed and walked between the cars, graciously accepting applause but looking for monetary handouts.

Trying to appear inconspicuous, I stood half behind a tree and looked on with anticipation as car windows opened and admiring observers dropped change into his palm. When no one was generous, when no one stopped him, I averted my gaze, glanced across at the other intersection, where another young Argentine was doing a practical performance. His attempts at earning handouts were not magical, I noticed as he wiped down the windshields on vehicles of obliging drivers.

“No saca fotos,” Hugo said, passing me as he returned to the corner to drink more of the viscous, dangerous fluid and relight the balls, and, ashamed, I dropped my camera in my bag, inwardly berating myself for acting so foolishly. They were the only harsh words he’d ever spoken to me, and even now, I wish he’d never had to utter them.

I continued to watch him perform for the people of San Juan until the lighter fluid was gone and his coughing grew more persistent. After the first few times seeing him drink the same thing he used to keep the balls on fire, I had to stop looking. My stomach was turning for him.

Later, when he wanted to know what I thought of his performance–although we’d been traveling together for about a week and had, despite the language barrier, gotten to know each other well, I’d heard of his street work but never witnessed it firsthand–I was at a loss for words. I asked about the taste of the fluid, for despite his shower, the smell lingered heavily and when he kissed me, I tasted smoke and extinguished fire in his mouth.

“No es muy rico,” he said as though it was no big deal at all. And, for him, it probably wasn’t. How long, I wondered had he been performing, hoping to make just enough money for food and drink as he made his way around parts of Peru and all of Bolivia?

Once we’d parted, the performance barely providing Hugo with enough money to travel to Valle Fertil, near San Juan in Mendoza, let alone Tucuman, my next destination, I wondered about practical matters: the ingestion of the lighter fluid, the inhalation of so much smoke, the blisters on his hands from such tight gripping– all for a few pesos.

I’d never seen anything like it before, I admitted to myself, and tried to conjure up memories of all the crazy stuff I’d seen people do for money in New York City. Nothing came close.

This was the kind of thing my guidebook didn’t mention.

About a week earlier, I’d tried to express my delight at not traveling like a tourist to Hugo and his friend, Nelson, as they set up a fire by the river (sans coals), pulled out a huge plastic bag full of carne, salted it, and created an asado (bbq) for the three of us, and I watched the tourists giddily white-water raft past us.

They had only laughed and said that what we were doing was “normal” for them, but I don’t know that they understood how grateful I was for their “tipica” experience. If only they knew how far off the beaten backpacker path they’d taken me, maybe they’d have been pleased with themselves.

Later, when I found myself couchsurfing in Tucuman with Cintia–una buena persona– and her family, and having some much-needed girl time, I explained that I felt lucky to be experiencing life as she experienced it: drinking mate in the park, sharing an enormous Saturday almuerzo with her family, going to a regional fiesta with live music, getting in the siesta groove mid-afternoon each day, enjoying tea time with cookies and cafe con leche following siesta, and eating dinner at 11 PM at night during the week. I was “fortunada” in so many ways that it was becoming increasingly difficult to feel–and express– sufficient gratitude.

I learned months ago to trust my guidebook for tips on bus travel, weather patterns, and border crossing information, but mostly, its advice is useless. Why consult it for the best place to find pastel de choclo (a Chilean specialty) when I can ask Pam and Aaron, the hip, young couple I stayed with in Santiago? Why bother reading about the best place to watch tango in Tucuman when I can accompany Cintia and her girlfriends? Why try the listed heladerias when I can ask a local–and a friend– where he or she goes when the ice-cream craving hits? Why go on every tour the book suggests is “not worth missing” when I can live as though I belong among the people who do belong and not as though I am merely passing through until I arrive at the next destination, where another over-priced, only halfway decent tour awaits me?

No, my guidebook cannot lead me to a rich, authentic, typical experience; that, I need to find on my own.

Fortunately, I’ve got more than five months to continue seeking my “tipica” experiences.

Because They Said Vamos

I’ve just had the incredibly rich experience of celebrating the Chilean holiday dieciocho or El Dia de Independencia with a group of Santiago locals.

Previously, I’d written about my positive couchsurfing experiences in Chile, and this latest one with Horacio and what ended up being ten of his closest friends, afforded me an opportunity to truly do as the locals do.

When Horacio, who, like me, quit his job to travel last year, invited me to stay longer than I requested to take part in week-long festivities at the beach a couple of hours from Santiago, I agreed, figuring that if I didn’t get that good vibe feeling from him when we met in Santiago, I could bail out of the extended trip.

Fortunately, no bailing was necessary. I had a couple of days to get acquainted with Horacio and his roommate, Nicolas, before the real party began, and when it was clear that food, fun, and drink were some of their favorite things, I whipped up a batch of my favorite brownies and cooked a full meal for Horacio and Nicolas and felt right at home. Horacio and I traded couchsurfing stories–his round the world trip offered him plenty of CS experiences–and listened to all kinds of music and stocked up on some lemons and avocadoes for the trip.

Dieciocho cannot be compared to the United States 4th of JUly celebration, at least none that I am familiar with. This long weekend, spent at a house rented by Horacio’s friends, mere meters from the beach, reminded me a lot like the parties my friend James and his wife used to throw in Rhode Island before they became the proud parents of a little girl. A house full of people, food, wine, beer, hierba de natural, dancing, laughter, and anything goes, I might have been with my own friends, I felt so immediately at ease and comfortable.

Although Horacio speaks English fairly well, the conversations this weekend, with few exceptions, were all in Spanish. At first, in spite of feeling welcomed and accepted, I felt intensely intimidated, scared to open my mouth for fear of speaking poorly. But as I tried to listen and understand this early thirty-something group of Chileans (two fashion designers, a photographer, and an architect among them) as they spoke to each other (very, very fast and with much slang: cachay, for example, exclusive to Chile, means You get it, and is heard every fifth word), I learned it was better to try and join in even if it was just a small, short sentence or two. My attempts at uttering their language were met with encouragement, and even though I was clearly the odd one out, I didn’t feel strange. Paola, one of the women, even asked me why I spoke Spanish so well, and she was being genuine in spite of my skepticism.

Contributing to the food money fund, helping shop for groceries, offering mas vino when I noticed someone’s glass was empty and doing my fair share of dishes, I sat back during the weekend and relished in the where and what, realizing how fortunate I was to experiencing all that I was.

When asked how much I was understanding (for they were all curious), “Entiendiste, Stacey? (You understood?)”, I admitted that I was understanding some. What percentage, they wanted to know, and when I said thirty or forty percento, my reply was met with laughs around. Sometimes, in fact, I only understood because of an added gesture or the general context.

I was approved of, in part, (I am convinced) because I proved to be a champion drinker of the national drink, piscola. Pisco plus coca cola equals muy rico. Oh, that’s another thing I’ve learned during my travels. Food is not described in Latin America as being delicioso as I was taught in my years of studying Spanish; rather, it is rico, and in Chile, anything can be rico. A sunset? Que rico! Bringing a sleeping bag to the beach for a late afternoon bbq? Que rico! Madonna’s “Like a Virgin”? Muy rico! Deliciosa in Latin America is considered the stuffy, informal way of speaking. It’s used in Spain, I’m told, to describe tasty food.

Of course, aside from the language barrier, there were differences between this party and the RI bashes that I so fondly recall. For one, there’s nothing unusual about eating a huge meal at midnight, f before heading to dance until 6 AM or later. I’m told it’s like this in Buenos Aires, so I wasn’t too surprised to find the similarity in Chile, Argentina’s neighbor, but there was one night when I was wondering if I was going to eat before going to bed.

The food was incredible and plentiful, and there was always enough for late-night snacking once we’d returned from the parties. Midday, we’d gather for a big almuerzo–those who had surfed returning to shower and have an afternoon beverage of orange Fanta mixed with beer (surprisingly muy, muy rico!). On the menu for this kind of meal was homemade pate, cream cheese with marmelata, camembert-stuffed figs, olives, and a variety of kinds of empanadas sliced into finger-sized pieces and drizzled with spices and olive oil–the best empanadas I’ve had in Chile, made by one of the women’s mother. Typicallky, there was wine and champage too. Then, maybe afterwards, a siesta on the couch. We all contributed to the meals and the shopping and the cleaning, though I’m pleased to say that the actual renters of the house were amazingly laid-back and it didn’t matter so much if everything was in perfect shape all of the time. Like I said, it was anything goes.

I noticed that, except for in the morning, when people were rising at various times and grabbing cereal or yoghurt or pan, no one ever took anything for one’s self without first inquiring if others wanted some. The sincere and natural offer, “quieres (you want)?” I could understand without effort. Even out at the bars at night, drinks were always shared, cigarettes passed around for those who smoked.

The only thing I struggled with a small bit was not having any sense of the day or evening’s plans. Once or twice Horacio would let me know that I needed to bring a warm sweater or leave my big bag at the house, but mostly when we went out, I had no idea where we were going and was disappointed once that I missed an opportunity to bring my good camera to take photos of the sunset.

Everyone was so laid-back that I too learned to just go with it, taking notice of others’ dress and movements to gain a small idea of where we were going and for how long, but it never really became easy.

One night, for example, after we’d stuffed ourselves with a variety of meats, pasta salad, papas fritas, and fried eggs (traditionally known as a chirollana), someone would say, “Vamos (Let’s go)?” and then a chorus of “Vamos,” “Si, vamos,” would be heard around.

“Vamos, Stacey?” I’d inevitably be asked by one of the group.

“Si, vamos,” I’d reply and sometimes, if I cared enough, I’d ask “Donde vamos?” inquiring as to where we were headed. However, sometimes when I asked, I was unable to understand the answer. Other times, one afternoon, specifically, when I asked Kenita, one of the lovely Chilean woman, she answered that she didn’t know, but since she was going along for the ride, I went too. I still have no idea what the purpose of that ride was as we seemed to sort of drive in circles, looking for something or somewhere but never really finding it. And I couldn’t figure out a way of asking without possibly sounding rude.

Of course, drinking a bit loosened the foreign tongue, and I found this to be true among the group as well. One on one, they each seemed to want to try out the little bit of English they knew, and then when one spoke a full sentence out loud amongst everyone, it was somehow quite comical.

The last night at the beach house, before we headed out dancing, I found myself talking with a few of the group and being asked what I thought of the weekend and of them. In my head, for the past day or so, I’d been trying to figure out how to tell them in Spanish that even though I didn’t talk a lot and wasn’t able to understand everything, I felt like I’d gotten to know all of them individually and felt very comfortable and fortunate, like I was with my own friends; thus, I was glad they wanted to know but not sure I could produce the exact meaning in their language. Tell us in English, Paolo and her boyfriend, Francisco, encouraged me.

So, speaking slowly, I told them what I’d been thinking in my own language, and then being pleased, they wanted to know more and asked me to describe my feelings for each of them individually. I hesitated, telling them in Spanish that I did not know many adjectives. Fearing that they would mistake my poor vocabulary as far as descriptions went (verbs I’m confident with), I begged off answering at first away at first and then found myself taking on the challenge and remembering palabras (words) to relay my message.

Even though the language barrier was still a very real thing even during those moments, I recognized that the important thing was that we were on the same page. I had gotten to know them despite not comprehending entire conversations, and they’d gotten to know me beyond the language trap. There were ways to get to know a person that didn’t include actual words–many ways. Maybe that seems obvious, I don’t know, but I’d never really thought about it before. I suppose because I’d never had to.

It’s hard to say specifically what kinds of experience you’re looking for when you set out for any kind of journey or trip, but that I know now that this type of experience is why I travel.