So there’s this new campaign in the country headed by the Ministry of Health called “Sin triki triki, no hay bang bang,” which means, “Without triki triki, there’s no bang bang,” which basically means, “If you don’t use a condom, don’t have sex.” Its aim is to convince youngsters to use protection when they engage in reproductive acts to stop unwanted pregnancies and to prevent the spread of STDs (read this article; it’s in Spanish, but use Google Translate if you’re español illiterate). Check out the music video:
I like the song! It’s pretty catchy, especially if you understand the lyrics. I actually heard a guy whistling it on the subway two days ago. Go to the web site and click “Bajate el mp3″ to download it if you absolutely love it.
Based on their choice of cumbia, I’m guessing they’re aiming the campaign towards the lower classes, who are at a higher risk for HIV/AIDS than their more well-off counterparts. Cumbia, like hip hop back in 1980s America, is particularly popular among the poor and disenfranchised in Argentina, especially those that live in the massive slums surrounding the capital. Nonetheless, I’m sure the message does everyone some good.
Although the campaign has a funny name, it’s probably more effective than the dry, not-so-catchy ad campaigns in the US that attempt to raise awareness of the dangers of STDs.
I’m trying to study for this big exam I have tomorrow, but I can’t get “Beautiful Girls” by Sean Kingston out of my head. I hear it everywhere in Buenos Aires; I’m surprised I have yet to hear someone’s cell phone go off during jummah prayers with that song.
I’d like to hear Argentine songs and not American ones once in a while.
My eyes are tired.
Three weeks and four days left before I return to Illinois, home of Barack Obama, Chicago, and the Springfield Race Riot of 1908.
Argentina, te voy a extrañar. (Argentina, I’m gonna miss you.)
Last night, I went to an American-style Thanksgiving gathering that consisted of five Americans, a Mexican, a Colombian, an Argentine, and delicious food. Yes, I celebrated Thanksgiving in Buenos Aires because that’s what real Americans do. And I’m an American, damn it.
We ate a whole chicken, corn, stuffing, mashed potatoes, chicken tikka masala wings (prepared by Rashmee), bread, and pound cake. Unfortunately, there was a not a turkey in sight; we substituted it with chicken because there was no way a whole turkey could fit into the oven. The thought of eating chicken instead of turkey on Thanksgiving is blasphemous and almost haram, but we had no other choice. It was good, though. It’s the thought that counts.
We all had to draw Thanksgiving pictures like we did back in kindergarten. I traced my left hand and turned the outline into a turkey. A ver:
I wanna show it to my mommy when I get back home.
Good people, good times, and most importantly, chicken tikka masala wings.
I feel like partying like it’s 1985 when I hear “Som de Preto” (I think it roughly means “The Black Man Sound” in Portuguese) by Brazilian rap group Amilckar E Chocolate. Just watch the video, and you’ll know what I’m talking about:
I really have no clue what they’re saying, but the beat is pretty damn infectious. The song reminds me of the “put your hands in the air/and wave ‘em like you just don’t care” days of American rap back in the late ’70s and early ’80s.
Except this song came out only within the past few years.
I’m pretty much done with my research paper about Muslim identity in Buenos Aires. While it ended up being twenty-five sheets, it really has about twenty-three pages (double-spaced) of content. I needed twenty-five pages of material, so it came up a little short. Oh well. I had more information, but I had to scrap it because it was either redundant or irrelevant. The good news: my tutor read it over, and she told me that I only have a few minor grammatical mistakes. ¡Qué bueno! Since the whole thing is Spanish, my third language, I’m pretty proud of myself for writing so much and so correctly.
I saw a bunch of Argentine hippies listening to and performing West African drumming and dancing to it very early Saturday morning. I got pumped up by watching people play the djembe, a popular African hand drum and had big dreams of getting back into it when I go back to the US. Yeah, I play it. Watch this video I took:
My friends and I ate delicious Peruvian food last night. Gotta love the spiciness.
I typically go out every weekend and stay out until five or six in the morning. As crazy as that sounds, that’s pretty common here, and people still study and make it to work on time. While pretty much everything shuts down at 9 or 10 p.m. in the US, that’s when the nightlife begins in this city. I love it.
I’m gonna miss all the locally owned and operated shops and restaurants when I leave. While regional, national, and international chains typically offer lower prices, they’re impersonal and lack character. You can actually talk to the owner and his or her family in these mom-and-pop places instead of some twentieth-tier manager who works by book.
My forty-four year old host brother constantly says “Hay crisis” (“There’s a crisis”). I have no friggin’ clue why. He says it out of no where, and the conversations generally have nothing to do with crises. I could be talking about eating chocolate ice cream, and he’ll somehow find a way to fit in “Hay crisis.” He’ll say it an average of twelve times a day, and that’s just when I’m around. And I’m pretty sure it’s not an Argentine thing because I haven’t heard anyone else say it so much.
This Pakistani uncle that has lived in Argentine for eleven years told me two Fridays ago that he hates the US. That really, really, really ticked me off. He didn’t say it to offend me, but he was just adding commentary when these Argentines were asking me about life in the US. Okay, I understand why people across the world are pissed off at American foreign policy and the government’s actions in other countries, but to tell someone they hate your country just crosses the line. I probably have more of a reason to say I hate Pakistan than him saying he hates the US since Bengalis were politically, economically, and socially marginalized when Bangladesh was part of Pakistan, but obviously I’m not the kind to hold grudges against an entire country and people instead of the country’s policies. He apologized soon afterwards.
My friend Dan, an American studying in Buenos Aires, accidentally sent this e-mail yesterday to our public policy teaching assistant, who teaches the discussion section of the course:
Hey,
Ok, so I’m guessing we’re presenting on Thursday, so we need to get prepared. I***** hasn’t replied to my e-mail where I asked her when we’re presenting (I’ve sent her a total of three e-mails this semester, and she has yet to answer one). Can you e-mail her to confirm?
The Huntington reading is 38 pages long. I suggest we split it up into two parts: I’ll do 92-111, and you do 111-30 (or vice-versa, if you want). Both of us should definitely read everything, but this is just that so one of us can focus on a particular section.
Let’s meet Wednesday afternoon to get everything together. Does that work for you?
- Hasan
PS - Ugh, and we have that project. We definitely have to get started next weekend. Can you e-mail and ask her if our topic is okay and if we can write the paper in English? Explain to her that all the sources are in English and that we’re really busy and writing in English would be much easier for us. I would write to her, but she never responds.
He did what I asked and e-mailed the teacher with my questions. The thing is, he replied to my e-mail to contact her while BCCing it to me and forgot to delete what I said! Crap. You know how when you reply to e-mails it shows the past messages? We don’t know if she saw my comments about how she never responds to my e-mails and my lack of desire to do the project (”Ugh, and we have that project”). Maybe we’ll find out tomorrow in class.
The teacher responded to Dan’s e-mail in less than twenty minutes (and why did she not answer mine, even though I sent it six days ago?) and answered our questions: yes, we are presenting the Samuel P. Huntington reading tomorrow, and yes, we can write our paper in English. However, she CCed the e-mail to the twenty-four people in the class (wait, I thought there were only twenty—maybe the others dropped but still remain on the mailing list), which means everyone could have read it. And everyone, including the teacher, knows English, so they surely have the ability to read my words.
Oh well. Dan, the other two Americans in our class, and I had a good laugh over the fiasco over lunch today. It could be worse. All I said was that the teacher never responds to my e-mails. Nothing bad. At least I didn’t call her a bitch or anything.
We couldn’t figure out why she responded to our e-mail by sending it to the entire class when it doesn’t pertain to them. We theorized that she wanted to prove to everyone that she does indeed respond to e-mails.
It just hit me yesterday that most young white guys in Buenos Aires have long/shaggy hair while the browner dudes tend to have shorter, often gelled, hair and sometimes rattails. I mean, I noticed long ago that long hair, mullets, and rattails are the norm here, but I didn’t realize that the styles varied by skin color.
I’m thinking about growing my hair out again. It was shaggy and almost down to my neck last December, but I had it trimmed to make it more manageable and then buzzed down to half an inch in January to make a fresh start. It’s been about the same length ever since. Because I’m a conflicted man with thin (no, not thinning; it’s always been relatively thin) hair, I often switch back from shaggy hair to buzzcuts. I know I look better with long hair, but it’s just so high maintenance, and it gets messed up easily. Blah. I can never decide what to stick with.
Actually, if I could, I would grow an Afro. Not a huge one; just long enough to stick a pick in it.
While I’m still on the topic of fashion in this city, I’ve tinkered with the idea of piercing my ears and getting diamond studs. I’d look so slick and dangerous, especially if I kept my hair buzzed. And I’m totally not dangerous; I almost cried twice when I watched The Namesake three weekends ago.
This is what living in Buenos Aires does to you. Too many corrupting, pierced youngsters and their shaggy hair and mullets.
