doing the time warp

I suppose because I have not really updated for two weeks about my daily occurrences, they have lost the value that their immediacy would have afforded them. But my last week at Iracambi was sweet, and I will list the gist of it: a long march through rain after swimming in the waterfall, potentially (but not ultimately) leading to hypothermia; a trip into town via the community school bus (and the ride that we hitched to the bus stop in a passing van--squeezing tightly as a group of 10 like a pack of you know whats) to celebrate English David’s birthday, and it’s hard to explain but that was a perfect night; we had a MENTAL game of monopoly another night, in which I lost and American David won; and each afternoon we went hiking somewhere else, American David and I and a rotating companion, in Portuguese then English then Portuguese, depending on the third person; and on my final night, which was a few people’s final nights, we had a bonfire and wine and listened to my iPod one last time until it died, and those of us who were there for the dance parties that were going on when I first arrived did a number for old time’s sake, but it was different: the people integral for those dance parties had already gone and it was mostly memorial; and people said I wasn’t allowed to go, and Canadian Michelle said none of us would ever meet again. It’s funny how something so short can really change you, but I don’t doubt or deny that I’m changed, positively changed. I had said it was in some ways like Governor’s School at the beginning of the month, and I think about gschool in some fashion probably every day, even now two years later. Perhaps, and I think so, I will think as frequently of Iracambi too.

Travelling from Minas Gerais, Brazil to Buenos Aires, Argentina by bus was a lot different than I’d imagined. Local buses in Brazil go through the tiny towns, but I don’t know why I was so naïve to think I’d see anything like that on the long-distance buses. From the highways you can see the country’s green and mountainous landscape, the occasional body of water, the outskirts of some cities, and always the overpriced rest stops. Other than that, the point of these 24 hour bus rides is to sleep, as they play movies that are more a nuisance than anything. And when you arrive, it’s a different day and you feel pretty messed up. I think, to date, that long-distance buses are the only true time warp in the world.

As far as the places I actually stopped, Rio de Janeiro and Florianópolis, I had a great time at both. I felt sort of strange going to the beaches and restaurants there because I don’t really think of this trip as a vacation or a venue for luxuries like relaxing on the beach, so being there as a proper tourist, and not working at the NGO or preparing anything for the English teaching placement, kind of shocked me and reminded me that this whole thing is my creation, that the only person making me do any of the things I’m doing is myself. There is no real structure; I could certainly skip bail and spend the next 4 months on the beach. Of course, I wouldn’t, and wouldn’t even want to, but I guess I sort of realized that I could. Anyway, I felt that I had correctly taken advantage of the opportunity to meet Brazil a little bit more on my descent to Buenos Aires by gradually bussing it versus taking an instant flight. But Brazil is immense, and I feel that I hardly know it still.

Back to modern times: today is Saturday, and I arrived here in Buenos Aires on Thursday. The bus from Florianópolis took 30 hours, though it should have taken only 25, and I don’t think I realized how exhausted I was. I immediately had to take a Spanish placement test, met 5 fellow participants in the program – all Irish – and walked back with them to the hostel. There, I discovered that in all there were about 15 people doing the same English teaching program as me, all staying in the same hostel (which is really a future hostel; right now it’s under construction, and for example, the bathrooms don’t all have locks and the owner [American, from Boston, tough guy, sounds like Tom Hanks] installed my bed that night), and here is the zinger: they are all Irish, all from the same University (Limerick). And then there’s me. They had mostly just arrived as well and were all planning on going to a club called The Shamrock (lol), so in a few taxis 15 Irishmen and 1 American showed up to this club. The club was ok, as far as clubs go, but I’m sure you can imagine that I’m not really a club person. All the Irish kids are really nice though.

I woke up the next afternoon and right next to the hostel dropped off my clothes for wash, to be picked up that evening around 6. I was wearing my pajamas and an oversized shirt all day, but all the people here seem to dress funky anyway so it was fine. Of course I felt like a slob in front of all the Irish people, because I was wearing haggard clothes, hadn’t showered, and still desperately needed a shave, but I decided that they could love it or leave it. I was strolling around and stopped off for lunch, thinking that I should get back to the hostel soon if I wanted to join the Irish on one of their sightseeing outings with the liaison-type the organization provided to point us in the way of city entertainment, when I began to think that maybe I would blow it off and hang out by myself all day. I went and checked my e-mail, and discovered that I had an English teaching class starting in 5 minutes. I rushed over to that, arriving late but to sympathetic ears, spent a few hours there, and in coming back to the hostel took a terribly wrong turn. I spent hours trying to find my way back, but embarrassingly, I didn’t have the address of the hostel on me and while I did know the street and thought I knew the house number, I was even more terribly wrong and ended up walking to the end of the road on the opposite side. As a last resort, I knew I could find an internet café and e-mail one of the administrators in the program, though it was a Friday evening and I wasn’t too hopeful; but as I strolled into a not internet café and ordered a delicious amalgam of cashews, walnuts, and almonds (I missed them in Brazil, where all but peanuts are overpriced) and went to sit down, I remembered, in my pocket, all day, I had been carrying around my laundry slip, which had its whereabouts clearly printed at the top. I was quite far away, but walked it and from there, found the door I thought was for the hostel, and knocked to no reply. I thought I heard, then, from about 10 feet away, Tom Hanks calling to his dog – the hostel owner, of course – and casually strolled into the open hostel door (the one I was knocking on was part of the hostel, but because it is a future hostel, this door is not functioning yet; luckily, no one saw me knocking on it). I called home, had a modest dinner, and got to sleep early.

Today I am showered with clean clothes (all the Iracambi dirt washed out, and for just 6 dollars!) and a map of the city in my pocket and feel pretty great. Buenos Aires is a breath of fresh air after the dodgy Brazilian cities, which, don’t get me wrong, I adored; but it’s nice to securely walk around solo in the streets with blue eyes and some money in my pocket.

I may get a trim and a shave after this, and some pizza or empanadas, then see what the Irish are up to. We leave Buenos Aires on Monday for more preparation workshops, and I think on Tuesday begins a week of Spanish immersion camp. After that we’re going to our teaching placements. It’s funny because they have all just arrived, meanwhile I’ve been living out of my backpack for 6 weeks now (note: buy more deodorant) and am fatigued, and would like to get right to my placement. I’m positive this will be fun too, but…ah, I’m rambling.

I don’t have a cord for my camera. I may try to get a CD made and transmit my pictures that way, but I haven’t taken the initiative to do that yet. If I don’t get a chance for that, the cord should arrive with a care package from home by the end of the month.

Peace!