La villa pt. 1: Mirando atrás

While I am sure that during the six months I am here in Argentina I will experience a great deal of life-altering moments, I think there are three big transitions that stand out. The first transition was obviously moving from San Francisco to Argentina, and the third will be when I take a 20 hour bus ride to the impoverished northern provinces of Salta and Jujuy (hoo-hooey!). I have a feeling that the second was the most difficult: leaving liberal leftist Buenos Aires and entering the conservative, nearly fundamentalist world of latino Adventism.

There is one word that can encapsulate my feelings as I made that trip to “la villa” (puiggari/libertador san martin/la UAP): regret. The first regret I had was that I found out too late that the famed superclásico—a soccer match which is basically on my bucket list to see en vivo—would not be taking place some time after I arrived in Salta, but the same Sunday I was leaving to the villa. Not only that, we ended up traveling during the game, so I was reduced to listening to it on the radio, which is basically useless for someone who wasn't born into the language. Unlike football or baseball, soccer has no breaks to allow for a slower summary of what is going on, so the live commentary is outrageously fast—and constant. What's more, the game took place at River stadium, and it was a tie: perfect conditions for seeing a great game with minimal risk of riots. ¡Qué lástima!

The second regret was that my Spanish (or “castellano”, to Argentinians) was not holding up too well. Whenever Paula, the ADRA assistant, called to make plans to pick me up, I was always eternally confused. The phrases “dos y media” and “doce y media” sound nearly identical over the phone, yet it represents a two hour difference in time. Besides my difficulties with the phone, I couldn't say everything I wanted to in person either. Without an adequate vocabulary it was difficult to express the deep gratitude I had for the Gambetta's hospitality and friendship. Although I did get them some presents, just saying “muchisimas gracias” (many many thanks) didn't quite seem to do it.

Because of those failures of Spanish proficiency, when I arrived at the UAP I had a very strong regret that I had not come there earlier in my college career—or maybe even this year, like my friend Mike Ha is doing. I had had quite a few more Spanish “fails” on our 4 hour journey over vast plains and swamplands (e.g. crecimiento=rising river levels, not a tunnel), and had plenty of time to think about how much easier it might have been to just be in school again, not for intense graduate studies but a relaxed study of a language I love. It's really part of a culminating feeling I've had since I graduated in June, that for the first time in my life I am no longer looking forward to the future, but treasuring and missing the past.

I have always wanted to be older, never younger (I suppose it's the combination of having an older brother and having parents that treat you like an adult). In elementary school I knew I wanted to go to Walla Walla to become an engineer so I could design roller coasters (which I was ironically afraid to ride). In middle school I played ping pong with CUC students and yearned to be among them as equals. In high school I was on track to be an ascetic pastor who would change the world for the good. And in college, as confused as I became with my desired career plans, I still had visions of reaching the Ivy League in the years beyond. So now, as I enter the working world, it is difficult to cope with the fact that I have already come to and passed the Golden Age that I had looked forward to as a youth. All that shimmers is sure to fade away, but will I fade too? Is it humility or disappointment that has led me to think that my time has passed? Is it possible that being a “grown-up” just means realizing how little influence you'll really have?

Unfortunately I think that those questions will persist for a long time, and being constantly asked, “What exactly are you doing here?” by people around the UAP definitely doesn't help. I just want to shout “I don't know! Why didn't someone tell me to just come here?”. Still, I have been able to take a little bit more pride in saying, “No, I don't go to school here, I am an ADRA volunteer”. Maybe it's just my justification, but it seems that there has to be something honorable about not taking the comfortable route. Going back to college would have been easy, fun, and comfortable, but ultimately self-serving. Thanks to the advice of some friends and my own conscience, I have forced myself into the position of being a servant, something I have always wanted to be but never had the courage to really try. Vamos a ver ("we'll see how it goes").

(P.S. sorry for another old photo, but it's from Puiggari and seems to capture the spirit of this entry, more or less)