Mendoza
The border crossing from Chile into Argentina was definitely the most official-looking crossing we'd done, and - because we were in a tiny minibus - we were required to disembark, wait in line, get our stamps, unload the minibus, wait in line, go through a (not-very-rigorous) inspection, and reload the minibus. This all occurred between 2:00 and 3:00am, so when we arrived in Mendoza at dawn, we were completely exhausted. We bought some oreos to break our bills, then caught a taxi to an area listed in Mr. Planet has having hostels. Somehow, despite our complete exhaustion, we visited two of them, then settled on the cheaper of the two. We slept until the afternoon.
When we awoke, we were fairly hungry, and set out in search of provisions. Our hostel had a kitchen, so we aspired to find a grocery store. Unfortunately, it was just after 2pm, which - in Argentina - means it is siesta. Normal work hours in Argentina range from morning to 2pm, then there is a collective napping throughout the city, during which time only a very small number of large commercial establishments, like Santander Bank or Lider grocery stores, are open for business. Around 5pm, everything reopens, and business as usual extends until perhaps 8 or 9pm, to make up for the pause. We were caught in the vicious no-man's land of siesta, and there was little we could do. We wandered the wide, tree-lined avenues, at the moment decorated largely with barred storefronts and closed doors. After wandering for over an hour, we finally found a shop with Simpsons-themed hotdogs. As in, the "Pancho Homero," and the "Completo de Bart." Lovely.
That evening, after futher exploring the city, we decided to make dinner at the hostel. I picked fairly picnicky style foods, but Scott was hankering for some chorizo. He bought a package of hulking purple meat tubes, and attempted to fry two in a pan. Strangely enough, purple chorizo does not change color as it cooks, and Scott ended up eating something I wouldn't force upon my dog.
Throughout Scott's foray into sausage cooking, I chatted with an eccentric older couple also staying in the hostel (hotel). The man had blocked the hallway earlier with his wheelchair to give us an unabridged version of his immigration from Italy, marriage to his first wife, courtship of his current wife, their travels, their various properties, and their life together. He claimed his wife was German, but in actuality she was Chilean, of German descent. She spoke not a lick of German, English, or Italian, but rather was relegated to her native Spanish. The couple, who was probably nearing 80, owned a farm not far from Mendoza, and the husband, Domenico, had no qualms espousing the virtues of Chilean farmhands while denouncing the Argentinian ones. His wife, on the other hand, in a garbled mixture of Chilean Spanish and random words in English, wanted to discourse on the merits of expelling gas on a timely basis (after hearing the Chorizo-Maker, who was blissfully unawares of this bizarre exchange, break wind in the kitchen). Yet another of the fascinating bounty of characters who it is our pleasure to discover each day...
There is really only one reason tourists visit Mendoza, and one might argue that it is largely the same reason tourists visit Argentina at all. Be they wet, tannic, fruity or full, the wines of Argentina provide a draw matched only by California's Napa Valley and the South of France. Nearly all the wine in the country, though, is produced in one region: Mendoza. Being something of a wine aficionado, I was eager to spend our day in Mendoza immersed in tastings at many of the region's famed bodegas, or wineries. Traditionally, tourists will either visit the bodegas - the most popular of which are located outside of the city of Mendoza in the town of Maipu - by private bus or by bicycle. We looked into both options (as well as rafting, cool, Scott), and decided that there was third, underutilized but perfectly functional option: we could take a cheap city bus to Maipu, hop out at one of the many bodegas (indicated on a simple diagram on the back of a brochure from the bike company), and visit a few on foot.
This proved slightly more difficult than it initially appeared, since there were several construction detours in Maipu. We passed many tourists sailing blissfully along on their bikes, then finally asked the bus driver where we should disembark for the bodegas. He looked faintly surprised, then shook his head sadly, "This bus will not go there," he informed us. Along with two other befuddled Americans who'd opted for the cheap-but-difficult route, we got off the bus and asked for assistance at a nearby gas station. The woman identified another bus, but was unsure if it would take us where we wanted to go. This whole thing was made more difficult by the fact that the bodegas are spread throughout the countryside in all directions.
Nonetheless, when the new bus arrived, there were no passengers, and the bus driver, who seemed bored and drowsy in the early afternoon heat, offered to drive us directly to one of the bodegas. He dropped us off on a long, quiet country road bordered on both sides with majestic trees and a babbling brook. We tipped our personal taxi-bus driver heartily.
We visited two bodegas: Tempus Albus and El Cerno. Scott had never been wine tasting before; I'd only been once, and we reveled in the sudden high-class activity after so many months of "roughing it." We marked down the Tempus Albus Tempranillo and the El Cerno Malbec and Chardonnay, thinking we'd seek them out when we got to Buenos Aires, and perhaps import a bottle or two for the tasting pleasure of our family.
Back in Mendoza, we were sleepy from the wine and the lomo completo (steak, ham, cheese, fried egg, lettuce, tomato, onions, various sauces - positively sickening) we'd eaten before heading out to the wineries. We wandered a bit, packed up our bags, and caught a local bus to the station, where we would catch a bus to Buenos Aires. We cut it close, with only moments to spare, but soon were underway.
Buenos Aires
A few weeks before, we'd contacted several farms on the WorldWide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) Argentinian list, and we'd received offers from two of them to come and spend a week working for them in exchange for room and board. One, near Mendoza, was a family of four, with a small, sustainably-minded farm. The other, near Buenos Aires, was purported to be a permaculture community of 70 people committed to various pursuits, including sale of vegetables and goods from their bakery to the nearby town. They professed to be engaged in holistic living, with regular interaction between the many families. Excited by what was clearly a thinly veiled description of a hippie commune, Scott and I chose the latter. Our instructions to get to the granja (farm) led us to a main plaza in Buenos Aires, where we were to catch a two-hour bus into the countryside northeast of the metropolis. Of course, we managed to butcher the directions, and took an hour-long detour on a random city bus until we realized we'd long since passed our plaza destination. Backtracking, we finally caught the correct bus, and headed for the peaceful agrarian landscape.
From the bus, our instructions dictated we get off the bus at La Serenisima, a well-known milk factory. We were excited by the quaintness of the directions, and we only received one or two sidelong glances as we - two Americans laden with heavy backpacks - hopped off the bus at a freeway turnstile, with only a dilapidated auto repair shop within a half mile. We entered the shop, hoping for directions to the milk factory, but when we explained our purpose, the owner exclaimed that the farm we were searching for was located just next door to his home! He wouldn't hear of us taking a taxi, and instead closed his shop early (4pm on a Thursday) and took the liberty of driving us there himself.
We visited his other business, a pet food shop, on the way.
The only problem was that, when we arrived, the land he thought belonged to this elusive community had now been converted into a paintball field. We groped for a while, down country "blocks," which were actually just narrow grass pathways between farm plots.
La Granja
When we finally arrived at the gate, we could see an open compound inside, with a sprawling adobe building on the left, an enormous oak tree shading a circular kind of dance floor dead ahead, and a swimming pool, filled with murky hosewater off to the right. We could only see a few of the inhabitants, but immediately noticed that all the men had thick, bushy (untrimmed?) beards, and the women were wearing what I can best liken to the costumes from the movie The Crucible.
A younger man with a thin, wiry frame and foreboding black brows over a sun-browned face welcomed us, and took us to a nearby wooden table where a fellow WWOOFer, from Florida, sat drinking cold water and reading. We chatted, half in Spanish, half in English, and Ossiel, the man who'd greeted us, explained to us that because it was Saturday, no one had worked that day. They'd have a party that night, and work only a few hours on Sunday. We'd have our first real taste of work on Monday.
It all sounded good to us, and we were just starting to get comfortable when a young woman in an ankle-length floral dress approached shyly, to show me where I'd be sleeping. Yacara (I'm sure my spelling of their names is an abomination), as she was called, was soft-spoken, very short, and glanced furtively at me as I spoke, with a tiny smile on her lips. She led me through an enormous compound of fruit trees, rolling lawns, and eucalyptus, to a small structure at the back of the property. She explained to me that this house was for the single women, and presented me with some clothes. There had been a disclaimer in the second email we received from the community, informing us that all members of the community wore modest clothing, and that we would be expected to do the same. If we didn't have any, they would be happy to provide us with some. There had also been brief mention of twice daily meetings in which the whole community sang and danced; while this had stirred misgivings in Scott, my visions of reliving the romanticized hippiedom of the '60s grew firmer.
Yacara apologized as she waited, unabashed, for me to change into the pants she'd given me - ballooning purple cotton genie pants. I was allowed to wear a large T-shirt I had with me; she explained that everyone wore loose clothing so as not to be distracting or provocative. She smiled approvingly at my new appearance, then led me back to the dance circle under the oak tree for my first taste of community "meetings" (they use the term reunion in Spanish).
About 50 people, mainly around their early thirties, with several young children and a few twentysomethings, sat in a patient circle of chairs and benches around the edge of the circular cement clearing, sipping hot maté (typical Argentinian drink, traditionally made from bitter herbs and hot water and consumed from a special type of hollow gourd with a filtering straw) and smiling serenely at each other. Suddenly, a girl of about six stood up and began to sing. At this signal, several things happened simultaneously: a band I hadn't noticed, comprised of violin, recorder, and guitar players, picked up her tune; the entire assemblage began to sing where the girl had left off; and about 20 people moved from their chairs to the center of the ring and began executing a complex circle dance with crisp precision. I glanced at Scott, seated with Ossiel on the other side of the circle, and I could see the surprise I felt written plainly on his face. The group must've known hundreds of songs and their accompanying dances, and after a few, Yacara pulled me into the circle to participate. It was pretty entertaining, her calling little commands at me so I could keep up with the dance. Mostly it involved holding hands and skipping, clapping, and spinning.
After I tired of just watching the dancing (it went on for about an hour), I began trying to listen to the lyrics, which were entirely in Spanish. They spoke of love, acceptance, and sharing, but a common word kept surfacing in their hymns - Yeshua. After a bit, I turned to Yacara and asked her, innocently, "What's Yeshua?" She smiled, encouragingly, and told me that Yeshua is another name for God. It was around that time that the dancing dwindled, and the whole group stood in an all-inclusive circle. One by one, as the mood struck or didn't strike them, people began to give thanks, say prayers, or just praise Yeshua. It was not until we were in a close circle of people in simple garb, hands raised to heaven, asking for forgiveness and strength, that Scott and I realized that "permaculture" was not the most important adjective to this community. It was, first and foremost, a religious one. We felt we'd been lured there on false pretenses.
Diary Entries:
Today was mostly considered a day of rest, with only a few hours of work. Scott and the other WWOOFer went to the fields to weed and I picked lettuce, then washed it, then tore it into pieces (this was salad for 60 people, so it was a huge amount!). Then I washed about a thousand dishes. The kids here are really adorable, and apparently get to choose if they want to stay in the community at the time of their bar or bat mitzvah, around 13. I can't imagine any kid making that decision on their own, however.
I keep asking people how long they've been in the community, and how they found it, and there's a common thread in their stories that they arrived and instantly felt that this community was something thad had long been missing from their lives. One girl, a young Australian, came here as a WWOOFer two years ago, stayed for a week, then left. But two days after she left, she felt compelled to return, and has been here ever since.
They don't consider themselves Christians, and in fact this morning dedicated themselves for some time to impromptu outbursts of Christian-bashing...one man asked me if I was a Christian, and when I said no, he replied "good."
The food is very good though, and they always use chopsticks, which is fun...
This place makes me feel strange and sad. I feel I can't deal with how childlike and joyless this life appears to be. People laugh and joke, but I feel guarded, and can't do the kind of irreverent banter I'm used to with Scott.
People keep asking me questions I don't know how to answer, because Hayley The Good Guest/People Pleaser goes up against Honest Hayley. Everyone has asked me (1) where I'm from; (2) how old I am; and (3) what I do back home. Like a script. There doesn't seem to be anything to talk about with these people, and I don't know if that's my fault for being too timid or theirs for being too boring. Everyone has Hebrew names, and I'm scared to ask what their names were before, although I'm not sure why.
I'm finding myself questioning what it is that usually makes me happy, because it doesn't seem to be here...
Scott and I went for a walk after dinner today, and he expressed a concern of falling under the "spell" of this community...I don't think he ever would...
Yet these otherwise totally normal-seeming people apparently had their "aha!" moment when they arrived in this community. I think if they worshipped plants or water gods instead of Jesus and the Bible, I'd be more open...
Today was the first day of actual work, and it was hard! We weeded, planted, and harvested in the field in the hot sun, in full heavy clothes. Nice breaks: from 9-12:30pm we worked, then lunch and rest until maybe 2 or so, then work until 4, snack, then work until 6. The field team was Scott, Josué, Juan, Barlevav and me, overseen by Ossiel, who was initially super nice to us, but has turned irritable and snappy to me, and a bit to Scott. Scott thinks it's because he resents that woman works harder than he does. I'm not sure why, but it's unpleasant.
People keep pushing these weird conversations on us - one guy told Scott that all their communities (there are communities of this type that keep in touch with each other all over the world) will reproduce until they have 144,000 children, then the kids will kill everyone. Another guy told me about having no shoes as a child, but he is glad because life is just a test, and suffering is necessary.
The strangest thing is that much of their meeting discussion revolves around how to approach outsiders, make them feel comfortable, and thereby gain more members for the community. I keep wondering if they are having certain conversations for Scott and my benefit, but the weird thing is that I don't think they are...
The whole experience was undeniably different, and it was interesting to see the way people in the community began to change in their treatment of us throughout our tenure there. We stayed for five days, but I think we might've stayed longer on a different WWOOFing commune - one that didn't have such a strong religious aspect.
That being said, I have great respect for everyone who lives there; they have read the Bible and determined that God bades His followers to live a simple, communal life of worship, close to the earth, and they are doing an admirable job of evincing the principles they believe in most. Would that everyone could live with such purity and unabating adherence to the practice of their beliefs, whatever they may be.
The border crossing from Chile into Argentina was definitely the most official-looking crossing we'd done, and - because we were in a tiny minibus - we were required to disembark, wait in line, get our stamps, unload the minibus, wait in line, go through a (not-very-rigorous) inspection, and reload the minibus. This all occurred between 2:00 and 3:00am, so when we arrived in Mendoza at dawn, we were completely exhausted. We bought some oreos to break our bills, then caught a taxi to an area listed in Mr. Planet has having hostels. Somehow, despite our complete exhaustion, we visited two of them, then settled on the cheaper of the two. We slept until the afternoon.
 |
| Wine tasting at Tempus Alba |
That evening, after futher exploring the city, we decided to make dinner at the hostel. I picked fairly picnicky style foods, but Scott was hankering for some chorizo. He bought a package of hulking purple meat tubes, and attempted to fry two in a pan. Strangely enough, purple chorizo does not change color as it cooks, and Scott ended up eating something I wouldn't force upon my dog.
 |
| Dreaming of Malbec |
There is really only one reason tourists visit Mendoza, and one might argue that it is largely the same reason tourists visit Argentina at all. Be they wet, tannic, fruity or full, the wines of Argentina provide a draw matched only by California's Napa Valley and the South of France. Nearly all the wine in the country, though, is produced in one region: Mendoza. Being something of a wine aficionado, I was eager to spend our day in Mendoza immersed in tastings at many of the region's famed bodegas, or wineries. Traditionally, tourists will either visit the bodegas - the most popular of which are located outside of the city of Mendoza in the town of Maipu - by private bus or by bicycle. We looked into both options (as well as rafting, cool, Scott), and decided that there was third, underutilized but perfectly functional option: we could take a cheap city bus to Maipu, hop out at one of the many bodegas (indicated on a simple diagram on the back of a brochure from the bike company), and visit a few on foot.
 |
| Scott inspects his wine's opacity |
Nonetheless, when the new bus arrived, there were no passengers, and the bus driver, who seemed bored and drowsy in the early afternoon heat, offered to drive us directly to one of the bodegas. He dropped us off on a long, quiet country road bordered on both sides with majestic trees and a babbling brook. We tipped our personal taxi-bus driver heartily.
We visited two bodegas: Tempus Albus and El Cerno. Scott had never been wine tasting before; I'd only been once, and we reveled in the sudden high-class activity after so many months of "roughing it." We marked down the Tempus Albus Tempranillo and the El Cerno Malbec and Chardonnay, thinking we'd seek them out when we got to Buenos Aires, and perhaps import a bottle or two for the tasting pleasure of our family.
Back in Mendoza, we were sleepy from the wine and the lomo completo (steak, ham, cheese, fried egg, lettuce, tomato, onions, various sauces - positively sickening) we'd eaten before heading out to the wineries. We wandered a bit, packed up our bags, and caught a local bus to the station, where we would catch a bus to Buenos Aires. We cut it close, with only moments to spare, but soon were underway.
Buenos Aires
A few weeks before, we'd contacted several farms on the WorldWide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) Argentinian list, and we'd received offers from two of them to come and spend a week working for them in exchange for room and board. One, near Mendoza, was a family of four, with a small, sustainably-minded farm. The other, near Buenos Aires, was purported to be a permaculture community of 70 people committed to various pursuits, including sale of vegetables and goods from their bakery to the nearby town. They professed to be engaged in holistic living, with regular interaction between the many families. Excited by what was clearly a thinly veiled description of a hippie commune, Scott and I chose the latter. Our instructions to get to the granja (farm) led us to a main plaza in Buenos Aires, where we were to catch a two-hour bus into the countryside northeast of the metropolis. Of course, we managed to butcher the directions, and took an hour-long detour on a random city bus until we realized we'd long since passed our plaza destination. Backtracking, we finally caught the correct bus, and headed for the peaceful agrarian landscape.
 |
| Circle dancing in the community |
We visited his other business, a pet food shop, on the way.
The only problem was that, when we arrived, the land he thought belonged to this elusive community had now been converted into a paintball field. We groped for a while, down country "blocks," which were actually just narrow grass pathways between farm plots.
La Granja
When we finally arrived at the gate, we could see an open compound inside, with a sprawling adobe building on the left, an enormous oak tree shading a circular kind of dance floor dead ahead, and a swimming pool, filled with murky hosewater off to the right. We could only see a few of the inhabitants, but immediately noticed that all the men had thick, bushy (untrimmed?) beards, and the women were wearing what I can best liken to the costumes from the movie The Crucible.
 |
| Harvesting "tilo" or lindon for tea |
It all sounded good to us, and we were just starting to get comfortable when a young woman in an ankle-length floral dress approached shyly, to show me where I'd be sleeping. Yacara (I'm sure my spelling of their names is an abomination), as she was called, was soft-spoken, very short, and glanced furtively at me as I spoke, with a tiny smile on her lips. She led me through an enormous compound of fruit trees, rolling lawns, and eucalyptus, to a small structure at the back of the property. She explained to me that this house was for the single women, and presented me with some clothes. There had been a disclaimer in the second email we received from the community, informing us that all members of the community wore modest clothing, and that we would be expected to do the same. If we didn't have any, they would be happy to provide us with some. There had also been brief mention of twice daily meetings in which the whole community sang and danced; while this had stirred misgivings in Scott, my visions of reliving the romanticized hippiedom of the '60s grew firmer.
Yacara apologized as she waited, unabashed, for me to change into the pants she'd given me - ballooning purple cotton genie pants. I was allowed to wear a large T-shirt I had with me; she explained that everyone wore loose clothing so as not to be distracting or provocative. She smiled approvingly at my new appearance, then led me back to the dance circle under the oak tree for my first taste of community "meetings" (they use the term reunion in Spanish).
 |
| Just some modestly-clothed people planting lettuce! |
After I tired of just watching the dancing (it went on for about an hour), I began trying to listen to the lyrics, which were entirely in Spanish. They spoke of love, acceptance, and sharing, but a common word kept surfacing in their hymns - Yeshua. After a bit, I turned to Yacara and asked her, innocently, "What's Yeshua?" She smiled, encouragingly, and told me that Yeshua is another name for God. It was around that time that the dancing dwindled, and the whole group stood in an all-inclusive circle. One by one, as the mood struck or didn't strike them, people began to give thanks, say prayers, or just praise Yeshua. It was not until we were in a close circle of people in simple garb, hands raised to heaven, asking for forgiveness and strength, that Scott and I realized that "permaculture" was not the most important adjective to this community. It was, first and foremost, a religious one. We felt we'd been lured there on false pretenses.
Diary Entries:
Today was mostly considered a day of rest, with only a few hours of work. Scott and the other WWOOFer went to the fields to weed and I picked lettuce, then washed it, then tore it into pieces (this was salad for 60 people, so it was a huge amount!). Then I washed about a thousand dishes. The kids here are really adorable, and apparently get to choose if they want to stay in the community at the time of their bar or bat mitzvah, around 13. I can't imagine any kid making that decision on their own, however.
I keep asking people how long they've been in the community, and how they found it, and there's a common thread in their stories that they arrived and instantly felt that this community was something thad had long been missing from their lives. One girl, a young Australian, came here as a WWOOFer two years ago, stayed for a week, then left. But two days after she left, she felt compelled to return, and has been here ever since.
They don't consider themselves Christians, and in fact this morning dedicated themselves for some time to impromptu outbursts of Christian-bashing...one man asked me if I was a Christian, and when I said no, he replied "good."
The food is very good though, and they always use chopsticks, which is fun...
This place makes me feel strange and sad. I feel I can't deal with how childlike and joyless this life appears to be. People laugh and joke, but I feel guarded, and can't do the kind of irreverent banter I'm used to with Scott.
People keep asking me questions I don't know how to answer, because Hayley The Good Guest/People Pleaser goes up against Honest Hayley. Everyone has asked me (1) where I'm from; (2) how old I am; and (3) what I do back home. Like a script. There doesn't seem to be anything to talk about with these people, and I don't know if that's my fault for being too timid or theirs for being too boring. Everyone has Hebrew names, and I'm scared to ask what their names were before, although I'm not sure why.
I'm finding myself questioning what it is that usually makes me happy, because it doesn't seem to be here...
Scott and I went for a walk after dinner today, and he expressed a concern of falling under the "spell" of this community...I don't think he ever would...
Yet these otherwise totally normal-seeming people apparently had their "aha!" moment when they arrived in this community. I think if they worshipped plants or water gods instead of Jesus and the Bible, I'd be more open...
Today was the first day of actual work, and it was hard! We weeded, planted, and harvested in the field in the hot sun, in full heavy clothes. Nice breaks: from 9-12:30pm we worked, then lunch and rest until maybe 2 or so, then work until 4, snack, then work until 6. The field team was Scott, Josué, Juan, Barlevav and me, overseen by Ossiel, who was initially super nice to us, but has turned irritable and snappy to me, and a bit to Scott. Scott thinks it's because he resents that woman works harder than he does. I'm not sure why, but it's unpleasant.
People keep pushing these weird conversations on us - one guy told Scott that all their communities (there are communities of this type that keep in touch with each other all over the world) will reproduce until they have 144,000 children, then the kids will kill everyone. Another guy told me about having no shoes as a child, but he is glad because life is just a test, and suffering is necessary.
The strangest thing is that much of their meeting discussion revolves around how to approach outsiders, make them feel comfortable, and thereby gain more members for the community. I keep wondering if they are having certain conversations for Scott and my benefit, but the weird thing is that I don't think they are...
The whole experience was undeniably different, and it was interesting to see the way people in the community began to change in their treatment of us throughout our tenure there. We stayed for five days, but I think we might've stayed longer on a different WWOOFing commune - one that didn't have such a strong religious aspect.
That being said, I have great respect for everyone who lives there; they have read the Bible and determined that God bades His followers to live a simple, communal life of worship, close to the earth, and they are doing an admirable job of evincing the principles they believe in most. Would that everyone could live with such purity and unabating adherence to the practice of their beliefs, whatever they may be.
No comments:
Post a Comment