Oh boy, I've officially broken my one cardinal rule of this blog, and neglected writing for over a week (over two at this point!). I'm sorry. As life in Mendoza winds down for me, I have been working frantically to tie up all my loose ends, including finishing all my lessons and giving final reviews, collecting payments (always a pain in Argentina), buying presents for friends and family back home, and then buying an additional suitcase to contain said presents along with all my own purchases. I have also been fielding some very interesting job offers from various locales in South and Central America, as I weigh my options for the future. And of course, preparing for my next adventure: life on the farm!
But wait... leaving Mendoza? That's right, we are officially hitching up the wagon and leaving Mendoza behind in almost two weeks. Although Mendoza has certianly challenged us, enticed us, confounded us, and embraced us in its own unique way, it's time to move on. And now that the austral summer is in full swing with Christmas just around the corner, I am more than ready to escape the stifling dry heat and tempestuous clouds of sand and pollen that are currently wreaking havoc on my allergies.
Of course, we are not quite ready to leave the warmth of summer after waiting nearly 10 months for its delayed arrival, so we are sticking around Argentina for another two months. In all honesty, I would stay longer if I could, but even with full-time work and job offers in three different cities, I am dead broke. Despite our best efforts, Argentina has gotten the better of us financially and we decided its better to leave before our debts get overwhelming.
For the next two months, we will be working at an organic farm and yoga retreat center in the city of Lujan, about an hour outside of Buenos Aires. Hopefully, this experience will not only give us a much-needed taste of country life, but also allow us to spend more time outside, in meditation and personal renewal, and with each other. In addition, we get to participate in as many yoga classes as our sadly out-of-shape bodies can take. Ideally, I hope to embark on my next adventure more fit: physically and mentally. And hopefully I'll get a killer tan too!
There is so much more to share with you all, including our weekend trip to San Rafael to see Canon Atuel, "the grand canyon of South America" and my many hilarious and frustrating encounters with my lively (sometimes unbelievable) students. Teaching, living, and learning in Argentina has certainly been a challenge, but as I prepare to trade the classroom for early mornings on the farm, I can feel grateful for all the challenges I have met, all the things I have learned about this culture and myself, and also all the wonderful things I can look forward to embracing again whenever I make it back the US; namely cheddar cheese, northwest concerts, and all my amazing friends and family. And although I won't be having anything close to a traditional Thanksgiving celebration tomorrow, I can still take this moment to express my gratitude for all things past, present, and future that conspire in mysterious ways to make me a better person.
November 24, 2010
November 5, 2010
Rain in the Desert
As an Oregon native, I have the unique ability to find incredible comfort and solidarity in gray skies, rainy days, and a constant dampness in almost all my clothes. I still believe that the rain has a way of enclosing you, of making the world seem smaller, easier to tackle. Funny things happen when it rains. People become more determined in their destination: they duck their heads under gore-tex hoods or umbrellas and hurry through the rain towards an open doorway. Sometimes, they are forced to abandon their original destinations altogether, and spend a cozy moment or two in a coffee shop with complete strangers. Often, the rain makes people talk to each other in a way they might never otherwise: to comfort each other, to empathize, to look towards better weather with an incredible, unbroken solidarity. The rain is our common enemy and constant friend.
I think I learned how to live from the rain in my hometown. I learned how to be driven, to push through life as though constantly striving for the dry doorway in the distance. How to ignore the discomforts, the dampness and constant pitter-patter on my slowly wilting hood, and to keep my mind fixed on the promised warmth and comfort of that far-off destination. I learned how to appreciate a quiet moment in a comfortable place, to view unexpected circumstances and detours as small offerings of peace and moments of renewal. I learned how to be open and friendly, to empathize with others by sharing for a bit in their discomfort, to welcome casual conversation with strangers and forget my own insecurities. I learned how to comfort others, how to communicate hope by looking toward a better future, by finding a solution to the problem instead of feeling defeated. And I learned how to look at both sides of everything, the enemy and the friend, how to search for the lesson, the journey, or the moral in a bad experience. Yet there are some problems with this way of life, especially when I attempt to carry it with me into a completely different environment.
I think it has rained twice since I've been in Argentina, and they were middling, weak little storms that came blustering in on the back of a ferocious Zonda wind and then seemed to lose their nerve and drop crocodile tears on the hopeful earth. Mendoza, an oasis among a great desert, receives almost all its water from Andean snowmelt, which runs down the great peaks into carefully constructed aqueducts and canals which run along both sides of every street in town. What water isn't a gift from the mountains is collected as rainwater or pumped from scarce underground wells and stored in man-made lakes above ground. There are water-conservation efforts here, but like the fledgling recycling program, go largely unnoticed. Mendocinians are comfortable in their expectation that the water will come, reliable and timely every year.
Now that spring is here, the canals are flushed and full, the dirty water raging rapidly towards the north-eastern end of town as it collects more and more trash that is carelessly tossed into the choked streams. Overflows are common now, and city workers are called out to clear a clog in the line as the precious water gushes into major intersections or runs down neighborhood streets. The water is here, but I miss the rain.
When it does rain in Mendoza, most people choose to stay inside. Sometimes businesses close early or don't open at all, and the typically busy pedestrian streets are like ghost towns. The cafes bring their tables inside and bored waitresses look out at the rain from closed windows. No one talks about it. Everyone is waiting for it to end, so life can get back to normal. There is no solidarity, no common hopefulness. People are grumpy and rude and angry when it rains.
To a large extent, this is the way people live here: there is no hurry, no reason to dash for shelter or linger with strangers. Storms are an excuse to stay indoors, not venture out to strive for a new destination. When problems come up, they are dealt with leisurely. When requests are made or meetings scheduled, there is always a good chance they will be postponed or canceled. There is plenty of time for everything.
No one goes anywhere alone, no one is caught stranded by themselves. Life is lived in a big group of friends, family, and acquaintances, always together, never alone. People take the time to say hello but never stay in one place long enough to engage in a conversation: they have a schedule, someone to meet, and no burst of rain cloud ever gets in their way. People unfailingly answer their cellphones while having a conversation with a real person- be it a friendly chat over coffee, a class, or a business transaction. And during the rare moment of isolation, their cellphone becomes their companion as they have overly-loud, rapid conversations with an unseen friend.
People comfort each other through simple togetherness, an intimate knowledge of one another, or familial ties, not empathy. To a stranger, life is perpetually "bien bien" no matter what troubles haunt you. Any other response will get you blank stares or embarrassed looks, never any further inquiry. Bad experiences are forgotten or repressed, never embraced. Like the hushed memories of the Falklands War or the military disappearances of the 70's and 80's- bad experiences are taboo topics and should never be discussed, especially with strangers. In international relations, Argentinians have no constant friends or common enemies- they are an island unto themselves.
As a result of these two vastly different ways of life, I have never felt very comfortable in Argentina, despite its charm and beauty. I keep waiting for an unexpected moment to meet someone new, to share in a moment of empathy when I feel dejected, or to find peace and renewal when I am forced to slow down. But none of this ever happens here and I have been trying to duck my head and surge toward a friendly doorway in vain. I cannot push through this experience, resting during the hardest downpours and gaining strength from new encounters. Now, I have truly lost sight of my destination. Why am I here? And since the rain never comes to enclose me and make my world feel smaller and more manageable, I am feeling increasingly incapable of tackling the wide unknown.
I do not want to live like the desert people: every day with a vast, clear predictability that only reinforces customary behaviors. I like being a child of the rain, to live a driven life that is still full of unpredictable moments, unforeseen detours, and unexpected connections. Yet, my temporary residence among the desert has forced me to consider some important questions. Such as: Am I too often blinded by life's hardships, and push myself to achieve the closest goal instead of striving for the ultimate payoff? Do my dreams, relationships, and behaviors have any of the longevity of desert life? Am I too impulsive, incapable of commitment, too ready to abandon one life for another on a whim? Am I blind to the big picture in a way that is self-destructive? Perhaps spending more time here will help me shake the rain from my eyes, take off my hood, and take a rare look at the landscape of my life stretched out endlessly in front of me.
I think I learned how to live from the rain in my hometown. I learned how to be driven, to push through life as though constantly striving for the dry doorway in the distance. How to ignore the discomforts, the dampness and constant pitter-patter on my slowly wilting hood, and to keep my mind fixed on the promised warmth and comfort of that far-off destination. I learned how to appreciate a quiet moment in a comfortable place, to view unexpected circumstances and detours as small offerings of peace and moments of renewal. I learned how to be open and friendly, to empathize with others by sharing for a bit in their discomfort, to welcome casual conversation with strangers and forget my own insecurities. I learned how to comfort others, how to communicate hope by looking toward a better future, by finding a solution to the problem instead of feeling defeated. And I learned how to look at both sides of everything, the enemy and the friend, how to search for the lesson, the journey, or the moral in a bad experience. Yet there are some problems with this way of life, especially when I attempt to carry it with me into a completely different environment.
I think it has rained twice since I've been in Argentina, and they were middling, weak little storms that came blustering in on the back of a ferocious Zonda wind and then seemed to lose their nerve and drop crocodile tears on the hopeful earth. Mendoza, an oasis among a great desert, receives almost all its water from Andean snowmelt, which runs down the great peaks into carefully constructed aqueducts and canals which run along both sides of every street in town. What water isn't a gift from the mountains is collected as rainwater or pumped from scarce underground wells and stored in man-made lakes above ground. There are water-conservation efforts here, but like the fledgling recycling program, go largely unnoticed. Mendocinians are comfortable in their expectation that the water will come, reliable and timely every year.
Now that spring is here, the canals are flushed and full, the dirty water raging rapidly towards the north-eastern end of town as it collects more and more trash that is carelessly tossed into the choked streams. Overflows are common now, and city workers are called out to clear a clog in the line as the precious water gushes into major intersections or runs down neighborhood streets. The water is here, but I miss the rain.
When it does rain in Mendoza, most people choose to stay inside. Sometimes businesses close early or don't open at all, and the typically busy pedestrian streets are like ghost towns. The cafes bring their tables inside and bored waitresses look out at the rain from closed windows. No one talks about it. Everyone is waiting for it to end, so life can get back to normal. There is no solidarity, no common hopefulness. People are grumpy and rude and angry when it rains.
To a large extent, this is the way people live here: there is no hurry, no reason to dash for shelter or linger with strangers. Storms are an excuse to stay indoors, not venture out to strive for a new destination. When problems come up, they are dealt with leisurely. When requests are made or meetings scheduled, there is always a good chance they will be postponed or canceled. There is plenty of time for everything.
No one goes anywhere alone, no one is caught stranded by themselves. Life is lived in a big group of friends, family, and acquaintances, always together, never alone. People take the time to say hello but never stay in one place long enough to engage in a conversation: they have a schedule, someone to meet, and no burst of rain cloud ever gets in their way. People unfailingly answer their cellphones while having a conversation with a real person- be it a friendly chat over coffee, a class, or a business transaction. And during the rare moment of isolation, their cellphone becomes their companion as they have overly-loud, rapid conversations with an unseen friend.
People comfort each other through simple togetherness, an intimate knowledge of one another, or familial ties, not empathy. To a stranger, life is perpetually "bien bien" no matter what troubles haunt you. Any other response will get you blank stares or embarrassed looks, never any further inquiry. Bad experiences are forgotten or repressed, never embraced. Like the hushed memories of the Falklands War or the military disappearances of the 70's and 80's- bad experiences are taboo topics and should never be discussed, especially with strangers. In international relations, Argentinians have no constant friends or common enemies- they are an island unto themselves.
As a result of these two vastly different ways of life, I have never felt very comfortable in Argentina, despite its charm and beauty. I keep waiting for an unexpected moment to meet someone new, to share in a moment of empathy when I feel dejected, or to find peace and renewal when I am forced to slow down. But none of this ever happens here and I have been trying to duck my head and surge toward a friendly doorway in vain. I cannot push through this experience, resting during the hardest downpours and gaining strength from new encounters. Now, I have truly lost sight of my destination. Why am I here? And since the rain never comes to enclose me and make my world feel smaller and more manageable, I am feeling increasingly incapable of tackling the wide unknown.
I do not want to live like the desert people: every day with a vast, clear predictability that only reinforces customary behaviors. I like being a child of the rain, to live a driven life that is still full of unpredictable moments, unforeseen detours, and unexpected connections. Yet, my temporary residence among the desert has forced me to consider some important questions. Such as: Am I too often blinded by life's hardships, and push myself to achieve the closest goal instead of striving for the ultimate payoff? Do my dreams, relationships, and behaviors have any of the longevity of desert life? Am I too impulsive, incapable of commitment, too ready to abandon one life for another on a whim? Am I blind to the big picture in a way that is self-destructive? Perhaps spending more time here will help me shake the rain from my eyes, take off my hood, and take a rare look at the landscape of my life stretched out endlessly in front of me.
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