A Southern Hemisphere Sojourn

The fork-tailed flycatcher, there called tijereta: that’s what I remember most clearly.

And the meat.

I once managed to get myself on a Rotary-funded exchange program from Cambridgeshire in England to Buenos Aires province. This was in 1988, not too long after the Falklands/Malvinas war, and there was a push to improve relations. Young women (25-35) who spoke Spanish and who could take five weeks off at short notice were chosen from each country to visit the other. We were the return trip, so we met the women who had been to England.

I stayed with nine different host families over the course of the five weeks. Every single place we went, without exception, served us an “asado,” which roughly translated means entire cow roast on a spit. It was great… except I was a vegetarian. First course, kidneys and sausages. Second course, steak. Third course, steak. Fourth course, steak. On to about course # 8, which was salad. (I managed courses two and eight. Usually. I muttered simple prayers to the god of vegetarians.)

I learned that the spanish I spoke categorized me as a “gallega,” a person from Galicia but the Argentine term for all Spaniards; I learned to drink mate from a gourd (and essential part of digesting courses 2-7, above); I learned how people cope with 400% annual inflation; I walked on the Plaza de Mayo and thought about the disappeared and tried not to think too much about the disappeared; I pondered on the unseemly Reaganite relish with which Thatcher had taken on the generals, now looking almost quaint in retrospect; I watched argentine films with women my age and twice my age; I flew in a Piper Cessna over flooded ranchland, being careful not to tread on the nest of a black-necked stilt on the way to the plane. Sting was playing in Buenos Aires toward the end of our stay. We all watched it on television, along with healthy dubbed doses of Miami Vice and whatever else our host families tuned into.

I saw a mate gourd for sale at the Co-op the other day. I almost bought it—the one I bought in Tandil started leaking a while a go and I threw it out. Then, yesterday, an argentina commented on a post I had written about Master and Commander. Brings back memories of tijeretas and roasting meat…