Wednesday, March 20, 2013

La Guerra



El sargento Márquez nos dirigió hacía la fortaleza. Como un veterano de más de cincuenta batallas, él era quien tenía más experiencia en nuestro batallón. El Teniente Bolloqui y el Cabo Sironi también tenían experiencia en el campo de batalla, pero su sed de sangre no era tan fuerte como la del Sargento Márquez. Era evidente, aunque era mi primera batalla, que el Sargento estaba en su hogar en medio de violencia. Me alegré de que él estuviera con nosotros; su presencia calmó poco mis nervios. Sin embargo, tenía miedo y el ambiente en el fuerte era frenético. La mayoría de los otros soldados eran veteranos como el Sargento Márquez y las fuerzas especiales, cuyos uniformes se hicieron distintivos, eran aún más fanáticas que mi líder. El Sargento Márquez nos indicó nuestros puestos en el fuerte. Esperamos. Algunos soldados cantaban, algunos otros oraban a Dios por la victoria, y el resto esperaba con ansiedad. En ese tiempo, me asustaban más nuestros propios soldados que el enemigo.

Cambié de idea cuando el enemigo apareció. Como hormigas derramándo se delante de un hormiguero, los otros llegaron al campo de batalla y tomaron sus posiciones. Pero nuestra vanguardia estuvo listo para atacarles, y la batalla empezó. Nuestro ejército era más grande y tenía más experiencia en ese ambiente, pero el enemigo era feroz. En cierts momentos, los otros llegaron muy cerca del fuerte. Los gritos y la sed de sangre aumentaron dentro de nuestras filas en esos momentos, pero una y otra vez, los repelíamos con éxito. ¡Qué feos eran! Se vestían de blanco como salvadores, pero era obvio que eran demonios. Ellos querían destruir nuestros hogares, nuestras familias y nuestro fuerte, pero éramos más fuertes. A pesar de sus ataques de artillería, algunos de los cuales me ensordecieron y de que prendieron fuego en el fuerte, nos mantuvimos firme.

Después de casi una hora, hubo un calma. Yo estaba confundido.

“¿Se terminó la batalla, Sargento?” Él se rió.

“No, soldado raso. El enemigo se está reagrupando. La batalla va a reanudarse pronto.”

El miedo debe haber sido evidente en mi cara.

“No te preocupes, García. Vamos a ganar. No tengo dudas.”

Aunque el Sargento Márquez no tenía dudas, todavía me preocupaba. Yo dudaba de tener la fuerza y la intensidad para ser un soldado grande como Márquez. Pero al mismo tiempo, tenía ganas de luchar una vez más. Cuando el enemigo reapareció, estaba listo para proteger el fuerte con mi vida.

Sus ataques de artillería comenzaron de nuevo, pero el enemigo se desvaneció poco a poco. Eramos más resistentes, y no mucho tiempo después, dimos un golpe paralizante a su ejército. Todos los soldados en el fuerte supieron a la vez y celebramos la victoria inminente. Me da vergüenza decir que la única herida que sufrí durante la batalla fue un golpe de un amigo durante esa celebración. Tuvimos que volver a la batalla poco después, pero los soldados  del enemigo estaban agotados y en una hora, fueron vencidos. Habíamos ganado la batalla. Por primera vez en más que tres horas, me relajé.

“Bien hecho, soldado raso García. Sobreviviste a tu primera batalla. Sos un soldado real ahora.”

“¡Mil gracias, Sargento Márquez! ¡Me divertí!”

Estábamos en extasis la victoria. Nos fuimos del Estadio Mario Alberto Kempes. Club Atlético Talleres había derrotado a Juventud Antoniano uno a cero. Si esa es la vida de una hincha, tengo ganas de ser un de ellos.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

The Sweet Embrace of Near Death


If we’re all being honest with ourselves, the opportunities that the world has to kill us during the course of a normal day are staggeringly high. Mortality is frightening though, and we try to push those thoughts out of our minds so that we aren’t absolutely crippled with fear. Most people have a limit at which the potential risk of snuggling with the earthworms outweighs the potential enjoyment of a given activity. With apologies to you all for that somber interlude, and even more apologies to my parents who might have to go to Rent-A-Son for graduation this December (Kidding! I hope!), we’re going to take a quiz on the danger level of this past weekend’s activities. Initial betting is strongly encouraged; the status of my life insurance policy is currently “Don’t Die” and someone might as well make some money off of me if I do kick the bucket. Of the following four options, please choose what you consider to be the most dangerous. Remember, there are no wrong answers:

1.     Horse race on an unpaved road
2.     Local soccer game
3.     Talking to strangers
4.     Riding in the back of a pickup truck

If you chose “Talking to strangers,” you clearly misunderstand how study abroad works, and, for all intents and purposes, have chosen the wrong answer. You will be taking Communication 100: Remedial Communication Studies, Emphasis on Throat Noises and Mouth Movements. Everyone else may continue reading to learn which of the remaining three choices is the most dangerous. The answer may surprise you. But it probably won’t.

3. Coming in at third place on the mortality scale is “Riding in the back of a pickup truck.” While this is very much illegal and very much something I sort of think about not doing once in a while, the convenience factor is too large to ignore. Sometimes our driver is even responsible. Ok, not really, since we managed to fit 17 people into the truck that one time and drove for 30 minutes. Ha, I’m just kidding! It was 18 people and the ride was significantly longer. I’m such a scamp! But we’re all still alive, so no one back home should get mad at me or consider taking me out of their will for violating that “grossly negligent” clause we discussed before I left. Not yet at least. There’s more to read.

2. In second place is “Horse race on an unpaved road,” and it was jockeying hard for first. I’m sure that pun made some of you wish the race had offed me, but the horse was strong with me that day. And yes, I have been waiting weeks to bust that one out, thank you for asking. Anyway, there’s not really much to say about this one. Two of us may have raced horses. The horses may have run into each other one time. The other racer may have almost got thrown once or twice. Someone’s horse may have relieved itself at a particularly inappropriate post-race juncture. Just a standard Sunday afternoon in Argentina as far as I can tell.

1. The dark horse candidate (still got it.) for this competition was the soccer game, because Americans tend to associate sporting events with belligerently drunk, rowdy fans. American games miss the crucial part of many worldwide soccer games, which is militant violence. To set the stage, I went to a soccer game with three Cordobeses (people who know what they’re doing). This was not a Superclasico (think USC vs. Clemson), nor was it a Clasico (think Clemson vs. FSU). It was just a standard league game, something along the lines of a Clemson vs. Wake Forest, and the stands were only half full. Knowing all that, I thought it would be a mild affair, even if we were sitting with the hinchas (hooligans) and it was standing room only. I thought like an idiot; I should have brought my riot gear and extra-absorbent nappies.  Our tickets, courtesy of my brave, miraculously-still-alive friend Emi, were bought from the mafia, which, I cannot stress enough, was an actual mafia that actually kills people. During the first half, a couple flares were lit. No big deal, I’ve seen that happen on TV. Then someone threw a few noise grenades. Then someone threw a few more noise grenades 10 feet from us. I think I was disoriented by halftime because everyone else seemed very much unconcerned, while I had a sinking feeling in my diaper. By the end of the game, I had survived 4 close encounters with the grenades, and my head was bleeding from an encounter with an exuberant hincha when we scored a goal. You’d better believe I’m going back.

Notes:
1.     Horses are fun, but I still think they’re some of the dumbest, most terrifying creatures alive. Whoever decided that breeding a breakneck tank around that much stupidity was a good idea must have been part horse himself.
2.     The more I examine that activities I do, the more I think I’m turning into a redneck. I’m only a Bud Light and a Confederate Flag tattoo away from a full conversion.
3.     I swear everything is probably safer than I make it out to be.
4.     The soccer game was amazing. I’m terrified to think about what would happen if I went to a game that was sold out.
5.     There is no 5. I’m just happy to be alive.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream Because We Had Too Much Wine

 
This past weekend marked our first overnight group trip, which means it was also the first time the Porteños (people from Buenos Aires) raised the terrorism alert level from Green to Orange this year. Those poor bastards. In hopes of capturing a historical moment in the destruction of American-Porteño relations, I decided to keep scrupulous tabs on the trip and how likely we were to be imprisoned. However, after learning that I was functionally illiterate following the bus ride to Buenos Aires, I decided to keep scrupulous tabs on myself because that seemed like something most 3-year olds could accomplish. I broke down my wellbeing into ability to speak Spanish, capacity to walk short distances unaided, desire to maim, incapacitate, or commit manslaughter, and miscellaneous, which changed depending on the day. After reading this, I’m sure you will all agree that I had no business being out in public by Sunday; by most definitions I was a walking hate crime, and we should all thankful that food has a calming effect on me.

Thursday Night, 10:00 PM.
Everything is sunshine and puppies at the bus terminal. I’m running on a legitimate amount of sleep, and I have just eaten. I dread the bus ride because I’m statistically more likely to be struck by lightning while winning the lottery than sleep in a vehicle, but I will not be daunted. I will curl up in a ball and cry my way through this bus ride like a man, and tomorrow I will sustain myself with caffeine, food, and more crying. Your move, Buenos Aires.

Spanish Ability: 9/10. Puedo hablar muy bien ahora, gracias!
Physical Capacity to Walk: 10/10. Put my legs in, coach. I’m ready to sit.
Murderous Intent: 3/10. I’ve been told that buses are inanimate, but I would consider shivving one in the radiator right now if there were a better travel option.
Body Odor: 3/10. My dinner featured heavily in garlic and onions. I expect disgruntled passengers by the end of the night. Nevertheless, I showered today and recently applied deodorant. Am I not merciful?

Friday Night, 10:00 PM.

It was a Christmas miracle. I managed to sleep on the bus for 4 hours, which may have saved the lives of upwards of 300 Porteños. Today we toured a lot, and I would consider my legs significantly shot, but for dinner we were served wine. I think there was food too, but my memory is hazy at this point, and the bottle is only half finished. I’m telling myself it’s an insult in Argentine culture to leave that bottle unfinished, because that’s what my inner frat boy is telling me, and sometimes I can’t differentiate between the two. They just look and sound so much alike, you know?

Spanish Ability: 15/10. Che hombre, debemos salir al boliche por toda la noche, boludo! Estoy gracias en la casa de tu mama, jaja! Verdad.
Physical Capacity to Walk: 0/10. What strength I had left after the tour has safely been eliminated by the wine. Jesús, take the wheel. Safely in your weathered taxi-driving hands.
Murderous Intent: 1/10. Unless it’s a crime to commit wineslaughter, I’m innocent of all charges, occifer.
Kidney Defense: 10/10. My kidneys have remained secure in my back region, and my newfound technique of spinning around violently and at random intervals ensures that no thief will have an easy time of cutting them free. I’m watching you, Jesús the cabdriver…

Saturday Night, 10:00 PM.

Alright, judging by the people around me, I’m pretty sure I’m still in Argentina. And we’re at dinner again, so that means I’m in the right group, because I’m pretty sure we’re always eating. But oh god, no, that waitress person is coming straight for me, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s probably going to speak Spanish at me. No, no, I can handle this. I got 5 hours of sleep last night. And there’s somehow more wine in this country, even though I’m convinced our group drank literally all of it last night. Wine sustain me, here goes nothing.

Spanish Ability: 5/10. Me darías un bistec con almohada por favor? También me gusta ir a la playa durante calabaza, de nada. Verdado. Nailed it.
Physical Capacity to Walk: 3/10. More sitting today has ensured that my legs still function. The wine is again attempting to sabotage this ability, but I will not be denied. There are stairs to climb at the hotel, and I remember that fact tonight.
Murderous Intent: 4/10. I killed it when I bought this dashing long-sleeved collared shirt! I may strangle someone with it too if I don’t get 6 hours of sleep tonight.
Ebonics Learned: 9/10. Although my delivery is stilted and still very much in the “Honkey” spectrum of the dialect, I have learned some key phrases like “She’s giving me Christmas,” and “I’m not about that life.” Damn, it feels phenomenal to be a gangster.

Sunday Night, 10:00 PM.

On bus. Go home now. Word hard. Spanish fail. Sleep bueno.

Spanish Ability: -2/10. No, YOU shut up and give me the hamburguesa with queso, por favor!  Does no one speak American around here!?
Physical Capacity to Walk: 0/10. I believe I was carried to my bus seat. There is no conformation of this aside from the shoulder marks embedded in my stomach. Those could be from anything.
Murderous Intent: 9/10. In most countries, I would be considered feral right now and put down for society’s sake. Thankfully, I’m not in most countries.
Bus Loathing: 93/4 /10. Ha, Harry Potter. Nailed it again.