Things I see, 2

On Friday I saw my second concert with Pata, who knows the best of Uruguayan musicians. I ate raviolis in the taxi, having not eaten dinner yet at 10:30. Martin Buscaglia, the singer, used children’s toys ingeniously as instruments. After his show he spun the best (and only) hip-hop music I have danced to here. We danced until 5. Saturday I saw a horse race, but did not bet on it, on principle. Number 5 won. He was the favorite. I also watched an Italian chef film his beloved cooking show in the grand entrance of the hipodromo, or racetrack. Everyone in the crowd who tasted the final pasta dishes ate off the same fork. I did not join them. Yesterday I saw my first field hockey game, which is funny because I never imagined coming to Uruguay to watch a sport I never even watched in New England; my friend Ximena’s team won by 2. And finally this morning, before taking a dip myself, a watched a group of older women finish their pool aerobics class on the top of the Sheraton Montevideo–the majority of them wore hair nets.

When the march of the penguins stops.

Let me confess. When I received my friend Pata’s email about an emergency effort to clean & rehabilitate penguins affected by a recent oil spill off the coast of Uruguay, I volunteered imagining it would be something like a playdate. You know, the penguins and me doing something like a waltz—them in their tuxedos, me in my rubber boots. We’d practically be playing catch, maybe even share a yerba mate. And then I arrived to Punta del Este for a day of volunteering and immediately realized that oil spills aren’t cartoons, animals are sweeter and more endangered than I previously thought, and the smell of penguin feces is a smell every oil executive should catch a whiff of, as they mop layers of it off the floor where frightened, petroleum-covered animals are living. The volunteers who are working 10 hours a day, without pay, are commendable. But what they need more than accolades are donations.  And though it sounds funny (and maybe even trite to some) to seek aide for 100 penguins being nursed in a patio of a restaurant in Maldonado, Uruguay when there are humans in need of food and shelter right here in Montevideo, to me both needs of intertwined. As I learned last summer in Maine, where I worked at an ecology camp for adolescents, and as I am reading in Jeffery Sach’s The End of Poverty, ecology (or the interconnectedness of humans and the environment) is a vital crosscutting lens in which to look at critical social issues. When one limb is ill—whether it is our ecosystem or those who inhabit it (both animals and humans)—the whole ecological body feels it…somewhere at sometime. On Friday, as I administered vitamins to baby penguins from a tube I had inserted down their throat, it seemed very obvious that my ecological footprint (my gas and my plastic bags and my…) certainly had an impact on these birds as they migrated north from Patagonia.

I will post more pictures when the are available. This one is from the website of International Fund for Animal Welfare, who is helping Sociedad para la Conservación de la Biodiversidad de Maldonado, in the rehab effort.

81st Conferencia Distrital de Rotary

A month ago Rotarians from all over Uruguay gathered in the resort town of Punta del Este for a weekend of conferencing. The 81st District conference was held in the Conrad resort, which is a Harrah’s run casino, and accordingly made me feel like I was home in Las Vegas. Conference themes included: the work of the Rotary Foundation, security in transit, and the future of Rotary in Uruguay. I had the pleasure of being asked to speak at the conference about the Ambassadorial Scholarship. I prepared for the speech with Anthony, like a child with her father. Anthony corrected my pronunciation and took pictures from the crowd. He even said he was proud of me. We celebrated that night at the conference’s formal dinner and dance. The weekend was a delight and proved a few things to me, including: Uruguayan Rotarians (especially my host club, Pocitos) seriously like to dance, free wine will help anyone speak better Spanish, and bike riding in new cities leads to adventures, always.

Pictures are to the right. Yes, I have finally added photos.

“Where have you been?,” asked Will.

I have been playing host. I have been relishing in families new & families that feel so old. I have been in Buenos Aires with Mother Mary and Sister-friend Lauren. We celebrated Lauren’s birthday there with champagne, brownies and a really spectacular tango espectaculo (I loved her—the one with the black bun, slick back with a red rose). We made fresh orange juice each morning. Mary and I meditated on the hardwood floor. Lauren comforted me when the buzzer made me afraid. We decided that I should host a trunk show with Uruguayan artisans’ goods. We also decided I need to clarify my goals. What is my end goal? How to make it sustainable? Their departure has left me walking around Montevideo aimless yet assured, sad yet determined. I am catching my breath, encouraged by the reminder of my roots. My homebase. My please’s, my thank you’s.

Things I see

Today in the shower I conceived of a new section for my blog: Things I see. I will initiate it today. Its title is self-explanatory. It will be about the moments that somehow slip beyond the monotony to become standout. And as an extra special bonus I will post a picture of me alongside of it, for those of you who are missing seeing my sweet face.

Let’s begin: this morning I saw my oatmeal spinning around in the microwave with honey and cinnamon and a touch of milk. This afternoon, on my walk back from class, I saw a police officer leading a school bus across the intersection of Ellauri & Avenida Brasil. He stopped oncoming traffic to do so, which led to an angry mass of honking hatchbacks. Then tonight, as I stood in a headstand in yoga class, I saw a fly marching across my bright orange mat. “Hello, little fly,” I thought, “how silly you must think we all look, standing on our heads.” But who knows, a fly that lives in a Yoga institute may not think it odd at all.

“But how are you really doing?”

Good friends have recently asked me if I am really happy. I don’t know if the question implies that they believe I am not, or if they are just curious. I will take this opportunity to say, yes, I am doing well. I will use the word well and not happy because happiness is funny thing. When I respond positively to the question of if I am happy, I feel there is little room to also acknowledge that I also experience loneliness and linguistic fatigue. To live very far from those I love is difficult. To feel constricted in language is difficult. To know fewer people than any time in recent memory, this too is difficult. However, I remain well. There are nights I go out and dance. There are nights I am in bed at 10:30 reading. There are moments I am sad. There are moments I look at the river from three-blocks away and think, “My gosh, I am glad to live here.” My life is a life. It has meals and bus rides, coursework and yoga. There are days it is substantially full and there are days I just buy groceries and go to the post office. But I will say my life here, like my life in general, is a great source of pride. To live so far away and yet pursue those opportunities presented to me, to miss my family and friends and yet know that what is before me is also to be loved and cared for, that keeps me well, even in those moments when I do not feel happy.

Asamblea Bi-Distrital—Colonia, Uruguay 3-4 Mayo

A wonderful weekend was had recently with my Rotaract Club (Paso Molino) at the country’s bi-district Rotaract assembly. It was a weekend of workshops and camaraderie, homemade cheeses and out-of-control night games. The nights were cold, but the conversation was passionate, as we discussed how Uruguayan Rotaract clubs could unite to create better “brand recognition” and a more unified sense of self. I had the gumption to speak up in the service workshop and propose d a National Day of Service where all clubs would embark on a common project, or a common project theme. This would build community within Rotaract but also promote it to the outside public.

Making Black Bean Brownies: If you can’t beat them, feed them.

As I have alluded to, but not directly explained, I now live with three Uruguayan girls in an apartment in a neighborhood called Punta Carretas. The neighborhood is known mostly for its mall, known in Spanish as Punta Carretas Shopping. Two of the girls study architecture. One works at a travel agent. We live as three strangers sharing a bathroom and kitchen. I am out to change this. I try to play up my ignorance so I can ask questions about language, house protocol; whatever seems likely to start a conversation. Recently I made black bean brownies.

The girls were definitely dubious of what I was doing. Silently, of course. Mid-black bean smashing, I offered a taste of the finished product. They both smirked and didn’t seem likely to take me up on it. The morning after however, when the brownies were chilled, I more or less forced Silviana to try…and well, she asked me for the recipe.

Differences: Breakfasts. Making Chili.

A roommate recently asked me if it were true that in the USA people sometimes eat really big breakfasts. She said she had seen it in the movies that we did. I told her that we didn’t always eat big breakfasts, but certainly when we had time (weekends, holidays, family get-togethers) we would eat a big morning meal. That it was almost like a treat. I then offered to cook a big breakfast one morning, like a gastronomic cultural exchange. But right before I could start listing all the things I would make she cut me off, “But why would I want to eat a lot in the morning? If I did I wouldn’t be hungry for lunch.” Then she walked away. Totally-unfazed-by-the-prospect- of-pancakes-and-scrambled-eggs.

Moreover, it turns out that Chili is not a normal Uruguayan meal. I made it recently and my roommates looked at it with a fair amount of cynicism.

… but not as a much as the black bean brownies I made a few days later.

Hit and La Vela Puerca

I went to see my first movie here called Hit. It was a documentary featuring Uruguayan musicians who have been important historically, especially during the years of dictatorship. After the movie, over Budweiser and white bread sandwiches, Andrea told us terrible tales of when she was young and there was military rule in Uruguay. ‘Hit’ touched on some of these years, but mostly just in the context of the music that was not allowed. Andrea’s were the sordid details (of rape as torture, prisoners being served fecal matter for dinner, families left in fear) that don’t always make movies very marketable. Anthony mentioned that in his history classes at the university, these details are also left out. I wondered if the omission was political or consequential? Are the histories so grotesque that those who lived them wish not to remember? Is the absence a form of cultural impunity, either way?

A week later, I went to a rock concert whose lead singer was featured in Hit. The band, La Vela Puerca, has achieved great success in and out of Uruguay. I went with my friend Pata, a doctor here, who has been friends with the band since they were young. We drank beer and shook our fists and sang (well, I didn’t sing. I didn’t know the lyrics, but everyone else did. I sort of just stood there grinning). The whole experience felt oddly redemptive. I can’t explain why, but it was like I had arrived, like I had been let in, like I was seeing a slice of real life.