by Becky Wicks
I know this is ridiculous. I should be relishing the chance to learn Spanish in a Spanish-speaking country. I should be out there wedging myself into cafe queues on purpose, just to get old ladies to scream at me, just to get hot guys to notice me … interaction is the key, right?
But the more I try to learn, the harder it seems. The more I sit in that classroom surrounded by sheets of paper and images of apples, chairs and cutlery being held up in front of me like I’m a nuclear war survivor with half a brain in rehab, the more I think, Is this really necessary? The same as I never saw the point of maths in school when my calculator did everything for me, no matter how interested I might be in Spanish, there’s always a little voice in my head that says, Google Translate is pretty accurate, why don’t you stop all this nonsense and go and have another empanada?
But then I think, shit, I can’t do that, because I can’t ask for an empanada without whipping out my phone and bringing up Google Translate, which wouldn’t work in a bakery here anyway because I still have an Ecuadorean SIM in my phone, which means I don’t have mobile Internet in Argentina, and bakeries don’t tend to have wi-fi. And I can’t ask anyone how or where to find wi-fi, either. Arrrgh! It’s just all too complicated. I can’t do anything but endure the classroom learning process, really. Eventually, I figure, some things will start to sink in.
I wish there was some kind of button we could press in our brains that switched on different languages. If they can put it in a phone, can’t they put it into me? I’d give anything to have an inbuilt Google Translate app right now because … I’m going to come right out and say it: I don’t like feeling silenced, squashed under the weight of my own incompetence. I don’t like not being understood. I don’t enjoy not understanding other people. I’m a nosey person who likes to know everything and I don’t like feeling left out and stupid. And when you’re learning a new language in an unfamiliar place, you feel all of the above, to the point of doubting everything you thought you knew. I need a little old Argentinean man to follow me around playing a violin, so sad is my situation. But even he would play songs I didn’t know and then I’d feel shit for having invited him.
I’m being defeatist here, I know.
‘My first week was muy difficil,’ said the studious Carmen as I sat forlornly at the kitchen table the other morning, trying to make sense of a pot of lard by the name of dulce de leche (another national dish that blows my mind).
‘It took me three weeks to learn anything!’ she continued, before taking the pot and smearing some of the caramel-coloured substance onto her cold mini toast bits. She then turned around and emitted a stream of fluent Spanish at Sylvia, making our hostess laugh in a charmed fashion, as only those with a knack for picking up languages at the drop of a hat can do.
I hate to say this, but I am experiencing a level of culture shock here in Argentina that is somewhat unprecedented in me. At least, I think it’s culture shock. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure I’ve never had it before, so I really have nothing to compare it to.
There were a few times I was shocked by the culture when I lived in Dubai, I guess … well, OK, there were many times. But there, most people spoke English. In Bali last year, the Balinese seemed only too happy to try to explain in English why they sacrifice chickens and why they ask semi-naked old men to pull their teeth out on their wedding day, or even why they steam their vaginas from time to time. Here in Argentina, it’s Spanish or nothing at all in most situations. If you don’t understand, well, that’s your fault, you ignoramus. The family dog, Tito, knows more about what’s going on at dinner time than me. I’ve started to cock my head when he does to show I’m listening. Eventually, though, I’m going to have to talk.
The verbs and their conjugation are the hardest. To be honest, I had to remind myself all over again what a verb is, what a noun is and what the hell conjugation is when it’s at home. You’re probably thinking, You’re a writer, how can you possibly not know this? But I’m telling you, I forgot. I use words like we all do. I don’t think about what they are, or why they are, or where they are or when they occur; they’re just words, aren’t they?
‘The truth is,’ said our teacher Lio on the first day, as my three classmates — a German guy, a Dutchman and a Brazilian girl — and I sat gawping at the verb ‘ser’ on his whiteboard, ‘you use verb conjugation in English whenever you speak, but you might not even know you’re doing it because the English verb changes are a lot simpler than they are in Spanish.’
You’re not kidding!
There are also a lot of Spanish words that you think are the same as English words, but aren’t. For example, ‘estoy embarazada’ said flirtatiously, as in, ‘Oh my, I am so embarrassed, I messed up my Spanish in front of you!’ is actually letting on that you’re pregnant, which isn’t an ideal way to win a date.
My teacher Lio is great. My classmates are all lovely. The school is excellent and everyone there appears to go out of their way to make sure everyone else is having fun and enjoying themselves. It’s definitely not them; it’s me. I learned a bit of Indonesian last year but that was only for a couple of hours every week. This is full-on, full-time study with mountains of homework. It’s draining, it’s daunting and it’s hard. I hate to say this too, but I’ve a feeling I’ll learn more if I change to private lessons, preferably with a hot local twenty-something male who wants to practise in a series of exciting locations, to help it all sink in.
I hate to be a quitter, though.
Being here makes me wonder how the hell I ever learned English. Having called my mum and asked, she confirmed that yes, I picked it up quite quickly when I was two. I’m not sure why it is then, thirty years later, when I’m more advanced, more willing to learn and less distracted by things like shiny spoons and Elmo, that I can’t even remember how to say, ‘Is that dog shit on your shoes, Julio, or Milka?’
I’ve had to email my friend Autumn, who’s flying out to join me soon for some Patagonian adventures, and let her know that she should get onto all the Spanish apps and learning programs she possibly can in advance. Meanwhile, I’ll just have to keep at it.
At least I can ask for wine now I suppose, which is as good a place to start as any. ‘Uno mas vino tinto, por favor!’
23/08
Bed-wetting, bad dates and The Lion King in Hebrew …
The other night I had a blind date with a local guy called Eduardo. He’s a friend of a friend from Sydney and he kindly offered to show me the nightlife in the Buenos Aires barrio of San Telmo. I’ve been practising my Spanish with Eduardo on Facebook chat and, although I declined his online invitation to join him and his mates for an asado first, we arranged to meet afterwards in a bar, at 9.30 p.m.
The Argentineans love asados, by the way. These are basically BBQs, usually in people’s back yards, that would make your average Aussie griller weep into his perfectly marinated prime ribs. During my first week, I attended one at the home of a very hospitable man I met via some other students at Expanish and found the whole thing quite thrilling, if a little scary.
An asado can last all day and all night and the main aim is to consume as much meat as is humanly possible. The catch is that you really never know what it is you’re eating. Every single part of the animal is consumed and absolutely nothing is spared in this act of carne carnage. You could be tucking into a bull’s testicle and thinking it’s beef cheek, or a pig’s brain, thinking it’s a deep-fried cheese ball. It’s just another situation where the lack of a Spanish vocabulary puts a girl in seriously dangerous waters.
After an asado it’s expected that you’ll sit around smacking your lips, burping and drinking red wine, before heading out to a nightclub. At least, that’s what I experienced at my first one. While asados are sociable and delicious affairs, the bulk indigestion and resulting strings of meat wrapped around your back teeth aren’t exactly ideal precursors for hitting a dance floor, but this is how the Porteños roll so I rolled with it … and felt a bit sick.
; Anyway, 9.30 p.m. swung around. I ordered myself a drink at the bar and waited. 9.45 came and went. 10 p.m. I sat there checking my phone for updates, but Eduardo was silent. 10.30 ticked along, as did 11. By then I was chatting in Spanglish to some very nice guys, both of whom had bought me a couple more drinks. I imagined Eduardo must have passed out in a meat coma and forgotten me, but much to my amazement midnight rolled around and in he walked. We recognised each other from our Facebook photos.
He pottered over to the bar, doused in a special Argentinean cologne of Marlboro and meat sauce and dressed in a made-to-fit designer shirt that seems typical of proud, fashion-conscious Porteño men. I was surprised to see him, as you would be. I know by now that people don’t go out here until midnight, maybe even later, but showing up almost three hours late for a date is kind of the same as not showing up at all, isn’t it?
I expected Eduardo to apologise profusely, to wrack his hands in guilt and offer to buy me copious amounts of drinks to make up for his unacceptable tardiness, but instead he ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, patted his stomach in rather a bored fashion and said, ‘Shall we go?’
Waving goodbye to my new friends, I was marched out of the bar and bundled into a taxi, where I assumed I was about to be taken to a tango hall, or a salsa bar, or something culturally splendid that would make having been left in a bar for almost three hours worthwhile.
Alas. I was delivered instead to a nightclub so vast and pounding and full of smoke I felt as though I’d been dragged into the very pits of hell. To his credit, Eduardo did pay the entrance fee for me, which was some extortionate price I’d never have paid on my own. He then ordered some drinks (an entire bottle of vodka in an ice-bucket) and ushered us over to his mates, where we proceeded to scream at each other for two hours in an effort to be heard. I didn’t get to see any of San Telmo. I just got even more of a sore throat. By the time I got back to my hostel, and Eduardo had tried his best to snog me in the back of a taxi, I was actually quite relieved the night had ended.
Ah yes, I’ve moved out of Julio and Sylvia’s. My time was up. I can’t say Julio’s enthusiasm and mildly chastising rants about the Falklands around the dinner table weren’t interesting, my Spanish is finally improving, too, and everyone including Carmen was lovely, but the bed was starting to cripple me. Plus, Julio kept turning lights off after me throughout the house. It’s not that I was forgetting to turn them off myself, but he seemed to leap for the switches before I could ever flip them. This made me feel as though he assumed I wouldn’t remember, which made me feel a bit awkward. It also made me wonder if he thought I’d also forgotten how I started the problems in the Falklands.
I’ve moved into the Milhouse Avenue hostel, which is closer to the train line. Now that the subte is finally working again it makes getting to class much easier. It’s also much cheaper to stay in a hostel.
I’m discovering that staying in Buenos Aires is eating away at my bank balance like you wouldn’t believe. It’s not just the food. The choripans (chorizo in a giant crusty baguette — my God!), Milka bars, alfajors (caramel biscuit sandwiches) and jamon y queso medialunas (ham and cheese croissants) are irresistible and not doing my figure any favours. But everything’s more expensive here than in Ecuador. Hostel living is a means of survival now, and for an entire week I’ve been sleeping … or catching sleep where possible in a bottom bunk, witnessing a non-stop stream of twenty-somethings from all walks of life walk in and walk about ridiculously wasted. I may have joined in, on occasion …
Milhouse is renowned as being the party hostel in Buenos Aires. The staff are all absolutely awesome. They’ll book any bus ticket or tour you like and there are tons of activities to keep you occupied (do the free salsa class!), but be warned: sleeping here is a game of chance. You never know who is going to show up, or when they’ll leave. You can shut your eyes in the bunk next to a delightful nineteen-year-old trainee vet from Cairns, and open them to the beer-farting arse end of a vile boy from Wigan who wears a T-shirt listing all the ways to dump a girlfriend he’s probably never had (this really happened).
This boy in particular took great joy in shouting absolutely every word at great volume in the dorm, mostly between the hours of 4 and 5 a.m., right next to my face, and drooling in his sleep. I’m not entirely sure, but he may have been on the retarded spectrum.
In the space of a week I have gained a special insight into the behaviour patterns of young travellers from different countries. The first time I woke up on my first night in the hostel was when Marcus, a chubby Frenchman, stumbled in drunk and started snoring like a warthog. The second was when the English guy, who’s been fighting with his girlfriend at high decibel constantly since they both moved in, woke us all up by falling off his top bunk. It wasn’t the worst thing he did, mind you.
Vini, my lovely Brazilian room mate who looks a bit like Robert Pattinson in Twilight without the white make-up (hot, but a bit too young for me, sadly), thought it was raining when the sound of water woke him up. But then he realised, to all of our dismay, that the English guy was pissing on the floor. The sound of this urinary waterfall failed to penetrate my earplugs (an absolute travel essential: do pack many), but his actual piss did not fail to penetrate his mattress when he climbed back into bed and went to the toilet again in his dreams.
I can tell you, it’s only the English who piss on their bunk beds. It’s only the English who piss on their bunk beds, don’t remember it, start a riot and then get kicked out. He and his girlfriend were promptly evicted the next morning and the mattress was carried out and disposed of — hopefully. I never smelled it burning, so the jury’s still out on whether they simply let it dry and moved it into another dorm.
Aside from the English, the second naughtiest, I think, are probably the Aussie guys, who travel in packs and are always the last up drinking in the common area. They vomit a lot. The Israelis are the ones chatting everyone up around the bar and the French and German men appear to be the first to bed and the first to start snoring. There’s also almost always a sleeping man — just one solo snoozer under a crumpled sheet — no matter what time of day you enter the dorm. Of course, this is all based on my observations so far. Things could change. I still have many, many nights in hostels ahead of me, so my findings are certain to become more concrete.
Can I just say now, though, that people who snore should not be allowed in hostels. It’s probably one of the most selfish things you can do. If you know you’re a snorer and you book yourself into a shared dorm room, you are knowingly inflicting a night of discomfort onto innocent strangers.
Someone needs to set up a hostel in each city just for snorers, in my opinion. Or at least hostels need to ask people if they’re inclined to snore when they check in and lead them to a special ‘snorers’ dorm’ (or a ‘snorm’ as it will eventually come to be called), so that everyone can sleep in their allocated places in peace. Snorers never wake each other up, I’ve noticed. They only wake the rest of us up … well, those of us who haven’t already been woken up by the English guys pissing on the floor.
As the stripy boxer-short covered bulging ball sack lowered itself from the top bunk into my direct line of vision this morning, I thought, man, I’m getting too old for this youth hostel thing. So when my friend Autumn comes to join me soon, we’re going to have a few nights of luxury time in some nice hotels before heading on over to Chile. She’s glad about this. When I told her that her photographic equipment would be very safe at Milhouse because everyone gets their own big metal cage in the dorm, she said: ‘A cage? I don’t want a cage! I want a room with a lock on it!’
I’m not entirely sure she knows what’s ahead of her on the backpackers’ circuit. The other night I went across the street to dinner with an Israeli guy called Dror, who was wearing his pajama bottoms. Over our pizzas he started singing songs from The Lion King in Hebrew, so I joined in with the English lyrics until we made a peculiar duet, taking on the Circle of Life in sleepwear with a ketchup bott
le for a microphone. A transvestite diner in a terribly ill-fitting wig just wouldn’t stop staring at us.
To keep myself out of trouble, and perhaps from going out in my pajamas, I’ve booked myself up for a host of evening activities. My new friend Tom, an American I met through my Expanish friend Michelle, works in Palermo and, as well as sampling all the new treats his restaurant orders in (sssh), we’ve been touring various restaurants together, getting fatter.
My diet, as well as all those other snacks, now consists of some of the best steak I’ve ever consumed in my life and oodles of cheese. I’ve probably gained at least five kilos but, to be honest, I don’t really mind because I’ve been told that once I get to Bolivia and Peru I’ll lose tons of weight. I’ve met a lot of people who’ve had terrible food poisoning in these countries. It might be worth remembering to do these countries last, so you can eat what you want and then shed the excess weight before you go home. Yes! Go ahead. Eat all the steaks and cheese you bloody well want. Go to every asado you possibly can and arrange all your dates after midnight. Whatever you do you’ll be able to redeem yourself sooner or later. That’s something the Lonely Planet won’t tell you.
27/08
A couple of humbling encounters …
I know I’ve already mentioned this, but I swear I have never encountered this many snorers in my entire life. It’s getting ridiculous now. Last night I was kept awake by the insufferable attempts made by a man called Juan to suck the very ceiling from our dorm room in his sleep. In and out he breathed, every intake an industrial vacuum. Had Juan been outside and not enclosed in a four-bed dormitory in an imaginatively titled hostel/inn called Hostel Inn, I firmly believe he could have sucked a jet plane from its flight path and brought it to land on his face.
