The Horse Is Strong With This One

In some corners of this country exists a particularly rare breed of Argentine that is best seen in its natural setting. The Gaucho, which once roamed freely in South America, particularly in the Pampas region, has recently become increasingly endangered. While extinction is unlikely due to the Gaucho’s popularity in the national culture, very few wild specimens remain. Captive Gaucho, while having a longer lifespan and more vibrant plumage than their untamed counterparts, lack a certain dignity and independence that can only be witnessed in a natural setting. A three-hour bus ride took us to one of the few remaining enclaves of feral Guacho, and while the danger was palpable at times, it was truly a breathtaking experience.

Upon arriving, we initially had difficulty differentiating between the Common Argentine and the endangered Gaucho. The most accurate way to determine if the Argentine you’re witnessing is an authentic Guacho is to determine its relationship with horses. The Common Argentine will have an affinity for horses, and may go as far as to mount one on occasion, but largely, the two species live separately. Gaucho, on the other hand, have a symbiotic relationship with the equine species, which manifests itself in near-constant attachment. The Gaucho will only willingly separate itself from its companion in order to perform a revenge ritual against a cohabitating species, the lesser cow. This unique relationship is significantly more parasitic than the one between Gaucho and horses, and any cow captured by a Gaucho can expect to be tortured, often fatally. The horse species is obstinately neutral in this age-old feud, but has been utilized at times by Gaucho to facilitate their heifer domination.

Those readers with weak constitutions make want to consider skipping to the next paragraph, as the Gaucho torture ritual is decidedly graphic. First, the Gaucho permit outsiders to ride their prized horses. This insures that the horse will defecate all over the field where the cattle will be brought, increasing the likelihood of ruining the cows’ freshly manicured hooves. Games are then played in this field of horse compost, often involving feats of strength, skill, and domination, in order to mentally prepare the younger Gaucho for the savagery that will ensue. Finally, cattle are brought into the corral, dogs whipping them from horseback and Gaucho nipping at their hooves. I assure you, the majestic imagery of the previous sentence was accurately transcribed. In the end, select cattle are tied, tackled, and tattooed with the initials of the alpha Gaucho while their compatriots moo in terror. The lucky ones will be barbecued later, slowly roasted outside for hours. Scrumptiously served in a variety of courses with wine, bread, and heavily salted vegetables, the conquered cows taste of defeat and a unique blend of herbs and spices. I assure you, had we known that we were facilitating this barbarous act, we would have politely refused seconds.

Naturalists have recently noted a peculiar trend among certain Gaucho colonies, wherein black bovines are exclusively targeted for the torture ritual. Discrimination, previously considered to be a unique trait of American ranchers, now seems to manifest itself in other cowboy species as well: the Gaucho has shown a previously unknown level of racial prejudice. In his now-famous dissertation on the subject of black cattle captivity by the Gaucho, entitled Changes, famed Gauchologist Tupac Skakur maintained that, “It ain't a secret, don't conceal the fact...the penitentiary's packed, and it's filled with blacks.” While the actions of the Gaucho may seem cruel to us, we must remember that nature plays by a different set of rules. In the end, it is survival of the fittest that determines who flourishes and who gets turned into asado on the weekends. If nothing else, the noble Gaucho can teach us that coexisting is often dangerous, and may require a firm hand. Because seriously, if someone doesn’t control these damn horses and cows, they will shit just everywhere.

Notes:

1.     We visited a farm where people who still follow many of the gaucho traditions live. They are incredibly friendly and accommodating people, and deserve better than being relegated to animal status in a mockumentary.

2.     Their horses heavily influence gaucho culture. Kids as young as 4 were riding horses.

3.     There was a dangerously adorable 3-year-old child at the farm who danced for us. He was even dressed like a little gaucho.

4.     All the parts of the cow are cooked for asados, including kidneys, hearts, intestines, and other intestines. Some of them are tasty. Most of them are terrifying. These adjectives are not mutually exclusive.

5.     While I’m growing to like them, I still maintain that horses are among the dumbest creatures alive. This comic becomes more relevant by the week: 

       http://hatefarm.com/comic/dont-punch-that-horse/

I Can't Hide This Feeling Anymore

Alright folks, I have to make a confession. Two, actually. The first is that this post is going to be borderline disgusting, so if natural bodily functions make you queasy, then you’re shit out of luck. That's a pun; it will be funnier in a minute. The second is that, against all odds, I have become a Communist. I fought these awful anti-Capitalistic sentiments all throughout Europe, but have finally succumbed in Argentina. Forgive me America, forgive me Uncle Sam, forgive me Stephen Colbert, I have sinned. I cannot deny it any longer: I have had lavatorial relations with that woman, Miss Bidet. Before you good patriots back home begin burning me in effigy, as you most certainly should, please let me explain myself. This tragic metamorphosis was not founded in curiosity or experimentation, but out of sheer necessity. This does not excuse my love of Bidet, but I feel as though I should explain how this newfound relationship developed, so that others may avoid falling into the same Marxist trap.

It all started, as many relationships do, with bad mint leaves. I was at a bar and had ordered a mojito because I love turning neutral bartenders into my enemies. Rising to the challenge, I suspect my bartender carefully and thoroughly washed those mint leaves in a recently used toilet, whose previous occupant may have also ordered a mojito from him. I’m not necessarily indicting my bartender with serial food poisoning because that would be a baseless accusation, but it would legitimately surprise me if he understood the words “potable” or “unflushed.” Spellcheck has politely informed me that “unflushed” is in fact not a word, so perhaps it’s understandable that my bartender would be unfamiliar with this word. Nevertheless, after being served a heaping portion from Mojito Man, I’m not in the mood to take shit from anyone. Especially spellcheck. So I’m going to continue unabashedly using fake words and making poop puns.

For the record, my mojito was delicious, and I may have eaten the majority of the mint leaves. The rest of the night passed without event. It would be the last peaceful night I would have for 5 days.

I woke the following morning to find something miraculous happening inside of me. It was so miraculous, that I’m going to use pregnancy as the metaphor to protect your innocent psyches. And boy, was I pregnant. I gave birth over 8 times that day, and if you’ve never had the pleasure of pumping out children at such an alarming rate, I assure you, it takes a toll on your body. Your old friend toilet paper, who’s always been there for you through thick and thin, becomes a cruel mistress. Fearing that the birthing wasn’t going to slow and knowing that my relationship with TP was in the shitter (nailed it), I looked around frantically. And who should catch my eye but that creepy kid Bidet, who I always saw around Europe, just sitting there awkwardly next to my buddy Toilet. Bidet never said anything, and she looked funny, so I always ignored her. In desperation, I started a conversation with her.

“So hey, I know we’ve never formerly met, but I’m Ryan. And, uh, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to…you know…get to know you better?”

Ever the introvert, Bidet didn’t respond. I took that as begrudging consent. I had a rudimentary understanding of how Bidet operated, but I can’t deny that I wasn’t a little scared. Nevertheless, I was desperate, and she was my only friend during that dark day.

Our first time was a little awkward, as first times tend to be. But soon, a strong friendship developed, and Bidet supported me through my trials with food poisoning. She was always waiting for me when I woke up in the morning or got home from school. I didn’t have to rely on TP’s rough disposition and shitty attitude as much anymore (zing). Even today, when I’m giving birth at a much healthier rate, and Bidet has technically become superfluous, we remain close. I don’t care that she’s a dirty French Communist or that she’s a persona non grata in the United States. If our love is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

I’m glad to have finally gotten that off my chest. I’ve been scared to tell my family and friends about Bidet because she’s not well liked back home. I just hope that everyone respects our relationship while it lasts. It’s not common for me to change my opinion on someone as dramatically as I did with Bidet, and I’m excited to see what other changes she will make in my life. With her help, I’m positive that I can weather any shitstorm that Argentina throws my way.

http://twitpic.com/a2vee7

Notes:

1.     “Poop puns” rolls off the tongue quite nicely.

2.     It’s not officially considered study abroad until I get food poisoning. I was hoping I could stave it off a little longer, but alas, shit happens.

3.     My official diagnosis was viral gastroenteritis. It resulted one day of missed class, two visits to the doctor, a diet of chicken and rice for three days, and innumerable bathroom visits.

4.     I have since fully recovered. There are few feelings sweeter than having complete control over your body again.

5.     I apologize for the graphic nature of this post. I simply wanted to document every aspect of my life here, including the crappy ones.

Clash of the Continents pt. 1: South American Edition

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For those of you who weren’t with me for my European adventures two years ago, I do a series of articles entitled “Clash of the Continents” where I compare the country I’m visiting to good ol’ ‘Murica. In the past, the PIPs (Portman Isn’t Preggers) system was used, but in lieu of Natalie’s infuriatingly successful transition into motherhood and marriage, that system will be eschewed in favor of the MADs (Martin Avoids Death) system. The MADs system will function in a similarly hypothetically fashion, where 1 MADs indicates that the item in question causes me to believe that George R.R. Martin, author of famed series A Song of Ice and Fire, will suffer a maddeningly ill-timed coronary embolism in the next week, leaving the series unfinished. 10 MADs indicates my belief that George R.R. Martin is simply an obese highlander, and will have no trouble finishing the series alive, and with the utter destruction of the Lannister household. As always, these opinions are based on limited personal experiences, so if you feel as though I’m misrepresenting an aspect of one culture or the other, keep it to yourself because you’re wrong.

THINGS THE UNITED STATES GOT RIGHT:

Meals – Now before everyone gets their pantelones in a pile, I want to stress that this isn’t a complaint about the food itself. Food here is delicious, heavily based in meat and bread products, and will result in me suffering a coronary embolism like George R.R. Martin. The meal hours and customs, however, are difficult to adapt to and seemed to be based on some sort of hybrid metric-time system that baffles me. Breakfast happens when you wake up and consists of nothing. If you’re starving, a piece of bread and coffee/tea is acceptable, but any more than that is considered gluttonous. Lunch seems to have evolved in a similar manner to lunch in the US, occurring in the early afternoon. Then Dinner decided to hit the snooze button a couple hundred times, because it doesn’t arrive until 11:00 PM. Tea time gets called in to work around 5:00 or 6:00 to cover for Dinner, but it lacks the necessary training and really is nothing more than a unqualified scab in this labor force metaphor I accidentally made up. Therefore, I’m awarding 4 MADs to the US meal system for not forcing me to stay awake to eat dinner, which I think is illegal under the Geneva Convention.

Money – Those of you who read my past articles will remember my general disdain for the Monopoly rip-off that passed as European currency. Argentine currency lacks the simple austerity that I admire about US dolla, dolla bills, ya’ll, but is not nearly as flamboyant as the Euro. Nevertheless, due in large part to inflation here, new money isn’t printed as commonly as in the states, and coins are a rarity. In many cases, when I’m buying my manzanas (apples) and bananas (bananas), I won’t receive full change because the supermarket simply doesn’t have the coins. On top of that, US currency is treasured here because of its stability internationally, so a sort of gray market exists where people are willing to pay more than the international exchange rate in pesos for dollars. US dollars get 6 MADs because a thin dollar rain in the states could cause a dangerous peso flood on the Argentine gray market.

Screens – This one really befuddles me, in part because harsher substitutes are already in place here. But there are no screens on any of the windows. On one hand, this makes sense, because no it doesn’t. There are thick metal shudders to prevent intruders, and glass windows to keep out the cold, but both permit mosquitoes easy access to my succulent ankles. There’s no air conditioning, so a hypothetical screen wouldn’t let out cold air, and would prevent my blood from being all over the wall where I kill mosquitoes that are too bloated on O+ to get away. I’m not sure if screens are necessarily perfect since mosquitoes can sometimes get through them, but since I keep my window shuddered at night anyway to prevent attacks from larger flying insects, colloquially called “Home Invaders,” I don’t see how a screen is any more confining. 8 MADs to screened windows in the US for understanding that the number 1 killer worldwide can be prevented by a few ounces of mesh.

Technology Prices – Poor Argentines. Due to an import tax on foreign technology, things like cell phones, laptops, tablets, and gum are marked up significantly here. In fact, the first month of my time here is being funded by me smuggling in a Nexus 10 tablet from the states and having my tutor pay me for it in pesos. What cost me $400 at home would cost $1000 here (in dollars, not pesos), so being an international Han Solo is a win-win situation for everyone except the Argentine government. Those of you who will travel here in the future would do well to remember to bring the three C’s: Cell Phones (to sell), Chicle (gum, to give as a gift), and Reciprocity Tax ($160, charged to US citizens traveling to Argentina because we charge that much to Argentines for US Visas). 9 MADs to US technology for being cheap, well designed, and created in China.

THINGS ARGENTINA GOT RIGHT:

Nightlife – I’ve discussed this already, so I won’t dwell on it for too long, but the nightlife in the US is more closely related to a daycare than it is to the nightlife here. In Clemson, for example, everyone’s bedtime is at 2:00 AM and there’s always that one kid who ate a little too much paste vomiting in the corner.  Woe unto you if you even consider returning home at 2:00 AM here. The “Abuelo” (grandpa) nickname has been bestowed upon me here because I can’t make it past 5:00 AM, which is when some of my friends back home are waking up to be functioning members of society. Still, it’s incredibly fun to be out that late, especially since no one has had to go home from a paste overdose yet. 6 MADs to the Argentine nightlife for making all of my friends back home hate me.

Sweets – Having long held the banner for Excellence in Obesity and Diabetes Embiggening, the United States surprisingly pales in terms of the quality and quantity of sweets it produces. Sure we’ve got the classic M&M’s, the pompous 100 Grand, and the I-Thought-You-Said-Something-Else-Entirely Snickers, but Argentina has those items (or their cheaper, Latino cousins) plus an entire aisle full of other sugary delights, bonbons, cookies, and sweetmeats, which Thesaurus.com has told me is a suitable substitute for “candy,” but really just makes me uncomfortable. In this author’s humble opinion, the words “sweet” and “meat” should never be united, much like the words “toe” and “jam,” or “Spanish” and “essay.” What I’m trying to say is that Argentines appear to only believe in three food groups (bread, meat, and sweetmeat) while still being able to maintain their svelte figures. Oh, and the sweets are better here. 7 MADs to Argentine sweets for totally derailing that paragraph into a lexical nightmare.

Street Dogs – A little known fact about Cordoba is that there are 17.33 street dogs for every person living in the city. Another fun fact is that the Argentine street dogs follow a contraception program that is exactly the opposite of the one employed by Jurassic Park scientists, and is equally ineffective. Somehow, with an entirely male population (I have yet to see a female street dog), the number of street dogs appears to be holding steady at a ludicrously high rate. I’m pretty sure they even outnumber pigeons, which should be biologically impossible according to the food chain. However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Argentina, it’s that the animals lower on the totem pole have a murderously high level of disdain for the aforementioned food chain. For evidence, I will cite the mosquitoes, which, after entirely devouring me in three days time, will claim the right to fight the street dogs for the Apex Predator Championship. At least the street dogs are better behaved and tend to not bite my feet at night much. 8 MADs to the street dogs here for tending to not bite my feet at night much. 

Lomitos – What do a fried egg, sliced beef, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, banana peppers, and 2 or 3 gallons of mayonnaise have in common? If you screamed “FOREPLAY!” entirely too loudly from the back of the room, then congratulations, you have been entered into the National Sex Offender Registry. There will be no appeals process. If you’ve been patiently waiting for the answer while Hester the Molester is escorted from the room, the correct response is “Lomito.” Which in hindsight does not accurately answer the question. Basically a lomito is a sub sandwich with the aforementioned ingredients that has no business being as delicious as it is. I suppose it could be used in foreplay, but that would really be a waste of a delicious sandwich, and I don’t really want to consider the logistics of that process. Suffice it to say that lomitos are delicious, and if I get obese here, that’s going to be the likeliest culprit. 9 MADs to the lomito for being a delicious sandwich that isn’t used in foreplay.

Time Flies Like an Arrow. Fruit Flies Like a Banana.

Gather round, little children, and I’ll tell you the harrowing tale of “Argentina and the Total Disregard for Time.” Those of you with weak dispositions or early bed times should consider not reading past this point. To understand this tale, you must understand what it means to be an Argentine. What I’m about to tell you is so strange, so barbarous, so mind-bogglingly incomprehensible, that after a week in this country, I’m even more confused than when I arrived. This is still just a theory, but the evidence I’ve amassed in support of it is staggering. I firmly believe, due in large part to the following account, that Argentines can not only function entirely without sleep but actually thrive in sleepless environments. Please observe:

11:30 PM, Saturday night:

The pregame (previa) starts at 11:30 PM. This should be a warning sign to me, but I am too excited about the fabled Argentine nightlife to heed it. I had set my alarm for 9:30 the following morning, having promised my host mom (Lizzy) that I would go on a short trip to the mountains with her and her friends on Sunday. I expected that I could make it home by 3 AM at the latest, because I’m kind of an old man anyway, and my Depends are only guaranteed to last for four hours. The previa is quite fun, allowing me to speak Spanish in a party setting, while occasionally botching a word or three and telling someone “I drank an armpit in Columbia.” Something may have been lost in translation, but I end up getting a free drink out of it, so you know who is the real winner here? Not Columbia. 

1:00 AM, Saturday night:

So begins the trek to the club (boliche) which I hear was formerly a theatre. Nobody bothered to tell me that this boliche was a thirty-minute walk, but I suppose that doesn’t matter since everyone is screaming at the top of their lungs the entire way there. I don’t even think we are drunk; the Argentines are just boisterously trying to show the Americans that they should be rated much higher than a paltry 46 in the International YOLO Index. For the record, the USA is ranked 1 in the IYOLOI, but only because I just made that up now.

1:30 AM, Saturday night:

Arrive at the boliche. Oh hey, we get in for free because it’s before 2 AM? Maybe that should be my second warning sign, because to me that seems really late, but maybe the Argentines are just a generous bunch when it comes to club access. We get in and the place is so totally YOLO’d out, that I immediately regret creating that index and putting USA at the top. I am also regretting writing “YOLO” this many times, but that seems to be what the young kids are doing these days, and I am having a hard enough time blending in on account of the adult diapers I'm wearing. I wore two because I don’t want someone to spill a drink and ruin my inner diaper. A boy scout is always prepared.

5:00 AM, Saturday night? Sunday morning?:

I…I don’t know how this happened. I’m so screwed. It was 2:00 AM just a second ago, and I swore I’d be home by 3:00 AM. Ok, ok. I’ll just get a taxi (remis) and go home. Yeah. I’ll be home by 5:30 AM and can get 4 hours of sleep. That should be plenty for a short trip to the mountains. The fact that everyone is calling me a bitch (puta) for leaving the boliche early stings, but I’ll push through knowing that I made the right decision. An ounce of diaper rash prevention is worth a pound of Gold Bond.

9:30 AM, Sunday morning:

Oh god, that was not plenty of sleep.

1:00 AM, Sunday night:

And we’re home again. From the “short mountain trip.” That only took 16 hours. Because we didn’t leave until 11:00 AM, and the “hour and a half bus ride” to the mountains is more of a “three hour bus ride, one direction.” But there was a German theme park with a zip line course that I rode up there. I’m not even exaggerating about that last part. There was legitimately a German theme park in the mountains of Argentina with a zip line course, and I’m almost certain it wasn’t a fatigue mirage.

Notes:

1.     The nightlife here is legitimately insane. Some of the Americans didn’t get home until 9:00 AM the following day. That’s normal.

2.     I should have been more aware of this since dinner doesn’t occur until 11:00 PM in my house.

3.     Time is more of a suggestion here. So is sleeping.

4.     For all of my complaining and fatigue, the mountains and the theme park were pretty awesome. It was actually cold up there and the zip line was pretty thrilling. Relearning how to zip line in Spanish was also a thrill.

5.     I was actually functionally handicapped on Sunday. I don’t think I successfully completed a conversation with my host mom or her friends in the 16 hours there. Blame it on the YOLO.