My spectacular forty-four week trip to South America that began on February 19, 2007 came to an end on the night of December 24 when I reluctantly departed Buenos Aires to Miami on American Airlines Flight 943. I dreaded that flight for weeks, knowing that I may never return to Argentina or see my friends. As much as I tried to hold my tears in, I cried, hoping no one would see me. Yeah, shut up. I sat alone with no one to talk to and looked back on my experiences. I now share with you a reflection of my Argentine adventures.
Since I lived in Argentina as part of a study abroad program, I’ll begin by discussing my academic experiences. First semester was particularly difficult. I struggled because I barely understood the professors and the complex and often boring texts. (Remember, all my classes were taught in Spanish, and four of the six were with local students.) Furthermore, the Faculty of Social Sciences at the University of Buenos Aires (UBA) seriously lacks organization and order. Understandably, its severely underpaid professors often went on strike in hopes of making higher salaries, and students often protested the actions of the university administration and the government. Sometimes I showed up to class not knowing it was cancelled due to strikes. Imagine the burden these uncertainties put on people who took one- to two-hour commutes by train and/or bus to get to campus. After a semester at UBA, I looked for alternatives. The second half of the school year was much better. I took classes at Torcuato di Tella University (UTDT), a private institution filled to the rim with beautiful preppy rich kids. UBA, on the other hand, draws a more economically and ideologically diverse crowd since it’s a public university and thus free. The system at UTDT has far more in common with that of American universities, and it generally runs smoothly and without major problems. According to some people, it’s one of the best universities in South America. Maybe, but I can surely say my high school was larger and better equipped.
Facultad de Ciencias Sociales de la Universidad de Buenos Aires.
Neither of the universities I attended, like most in Argentina, had a true campus. Most students in the US live in university housing, or they live in dorms, apartments, and houses located closely to campus. However, most students in Buenos Aires live at home if they’re from the area or in apartments if they come from other regions. As a result, the universities’ buildings are simply a place to attend classes and, sometimes, study. The universities don’t foster a true sense of community. You don’t see people wearing shirts displaying their university’s name, and highly-competitive collegiate sports simply don’t exist. Because most college students in the US live on campus or close to it, it becomes an autonomous entity, separate from the rest of the surrounding town or city. Thus, a strong sense of university identity is usually created. I missed the traditional American campus. I missed walking through a quad. I missed hanging out in a student union. Lifeless university buildings located throughout a city just don’t cut it.
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.
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.
Ramadan, which began on the night of September 12 in Buenos Aires, was such a unique and incredible experience. Few Americans have the opportunity to experience this special month in South America’s most culturally dynamic capital city.
I always look forward to Ramadan because it’s the only time of the year I get to meet so many Muslims. I know it’s all about spiritual revival and whatnot, but the prospect of having the opportunity to spend time everyday with fellow Muslims is what really excites me.
To meet Muslims from various backgrounds, I switched up mosques every night to break fast and pray. Sometimes I couldn’t go because I had so much to study and couldn’t afford to spend a total of an hour and a half each day traveling back and forth in the subway or on the bus and by foot from my apartment to the mosque.
Iftar at Mezquita Al-Ahmad.
Two of the three mosques in Buenos Aires provided free iftar, the meal to break fast, every night. I usually went to the Centro Cultural Islámico Rey Fahd (King Fahd Islamic Cultural Center), Latin America’s biggest mosque, but sometimes I went to Mezquita Al-Ahmad, a smaller, more Argentine mosque, unlike the other one, which is completely run and funded by the Saudi government. I also went to the Instituto Argentino Árabe Islámico (Islamic Arab-Argentine Institute), an Islamic school affiliated with Mezquita At-Tauhid, a small, primarily Shia mosque, twice (iftar there was from Thursdays to Sundays). Given that most Argentine Muslims are of Arab descent, these three venues offered pretty much just Arab food: hummus, rice, beef, chicken, and some other stuff which I don’t know. Unsurprisingly, it lacked spiciness and zing like most Argentine food.
During Ramadan, I met dozens upon dozens of Muslims. People from around Argentina, Buenos Aires and its suburbs, and Algeria, Senegal, Liberia, Guinea, Ghana, Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Turkey, Nicaragua, Bolivia, France, Canada, and other countries I can’t think of at the moment. About halfway through the month, I met these two guys, both brothers (brothers as in being born from the same mom), from Monrovia, the capital of Liberia, who have lived in Buenos Aires for about three years. First time I had met anyone from that country. I had read much about Liberia, about how it was founded as a homeland for former slaves from the US, so I was ecstatic to meet people from this fabled country. Their English was a bit hard for me to understand since it sounded like a really thick version of stereotypical Caribbean English, but we eventually overcame our communication troubles and became iftar buddies.
I spent a lot of time with the Bangladeshi guys. Because I was born and raised in the US and come from a much different background than them, I don’t feel we have much in common besides the fact we’re brown and have Bangladeshi ancestry. I mean, I can barely even speak Bengali. I usually just spoke Spanish to the ones that knew it and English to the others. Some of them barely spoke much of either language, so when we talked much of our communication was reduced to them speaking to me in Bengali and me replying in English or Spanish. I figured it’s better to reply in some language instead of just keeping silent.
This one guy doesn’t seem to understand that I understand Bengali almost perfectly even though I can barely form a basic sentence. Haven’t I made it clear that I can understand but not speak it? One day, I was sitting at a table with a few Bangladeshis and Argentines, and the Bangladeshi guys were telling me how I should learn Bengali since it’s a part of my heritage. And this one guy was telling them, in Bengali, that my parents must be so proud of living in the US that they don’t teach their children their native language. Ugh. I’d like to see them raise their kids in Argentina and teach them to speak Bengali well.
After nearly two weeks of dark days and cold rain showers, the weather’s finally clearing up and getting warmer. I don’t have a thermometer built into my brain, but I’m guessing the high was 65 °F or so. Pretty flippin’ sweet.
Thousands of high school and college students and probably some junior high kids too were out and about for Día del Estudiante, or Student Day, which is held every twenty-first of September, the first day of spring. With no classes, they were swarming the sidewalks in large droves, walking towards the nearest parks to hang out with their friends and possibly get drunk and/or high. Some snack vendors were out, and I saw a reggae band performing. Interestingly, reggae seems fairly popular down here. What’s more interesting is that you see a lot of Rasta-looking white guys with dreadlocks.
Two of my friends and I took a quick stroll through Bosques de Palermo, a big park full of trees, bushes, lakes, and other goodies. Since we’re American, we spoke English to each other, which draws attention here, especially when it’s spoken by two Bangladeshis and a black girl–you know, all Americans have blond hair and blue eyes. My friends, both Muslims and hijabis, tend to draw a lot of attention since there are very few blacks, desis, and women that cover their hair in Argentina. A group of three or four guys in their late teens or early twenties was walking behind us, staring and grinning. One of them kept saying to his buddies “A ver” (”let’s take a look”). Then they started saying stuff like “I love you” and “welcome Argentina” in their very limited English to my friends. Then I turned around and said “Hablamos castellano también” (”We speak Spanish too”) just to show them that we understood everything they were saying when they spoke among themselves. And then one of them said “te quiero” (”I love you”) to the girls. Ha ha ha ha ha. And then they offered them beer since they were walking around with at least one bottle of Quilmes. Fortunately, they drifted away after following us for a few minutes.
Argentine guys are so bold. How did they know I wasn’t with either of the girls? You hardly find guys in the US that are brave enough to say stuff like that to random girls, especially when they’re with other guys. Yes, they were probably drunk, but many Argentine guys do stuff like that when they’re sober. They often give random girls piropos, or flirtatious comments, even when they’re with a dude. They range from sweet to really vulgar and everything in between. You know what they call really vulgar piropos back where I’m from? Sexual harassment.
Luckily, I’m a guy and don’t have to deal with creepy men. Ugh, creepy guys ruin everything for the non-creepy ones like me. Why are so many guys like that throughout the world? Creepiness among men transcends nationality, race, religion, ethnicity, politics, and economics. I hope it’s not genetic.
A little video I took:
It got a bit racier a few minutes afterwards. The guy that pulled his shirt over his head pulled down his shorts and boxers and almost showed his, uh, yeah…
What a wonderful way to celebrate the beginning of spring.
Facultad de Ciencias Sociales de la Universidad de Buenos Aires.
