Floripa crunch

Tuesday night, Trae and I rode an overnight bus for 13 hours to get to Florianopolis, a cute little rich beach town on the south coast of Brazil. This was after we successfully applied for our Brazilian visas, for which I had to pay around $75 USD and Trae had to pay $140 USD. Brazil hates the U.S! (who doesn´t?).

We arrived in Floripa (as it´s known to the locals) Wednesday morning, hot, stinky, and tired as all hell. For some reason, Latin American buses are COLD. Really COLD. Even though I discovered this firsthand four years ago while busing around Venezuela, and again last week while busing from Rosario to Iguazu, I forgot to bring my hoodie on the bus and therefore froze and woke up every 10 minutes to the fact that I was FREEZING.

Trae and I were torn between staying near the beach and staying downtown - we´d read that the beaches (there are many of them in Floripa) are all really far from stores and restaurants. We rode the bus to the gay beach, where Trae was hoping to meet some lucky guys, and kind of wandered around looking for beachfront accommodations. None of them were affordable, though, so we took a bus back downtown, wandered up a hill (at which point I abandoned my pack), saw a sign for Lagoa Hostel, found Lagoa Hostel, and settled into our new digs.

As luck would have it, it was hot hot hot when we stepped off the bus and while we wandered around looking for a cheap hostel, and then, as soon as we were ready to head to the beach, it got windy and cloudy and drizzly. So we went to a smoothie joint and I had the best acai, grape juice, banana, strawberry smoothie EVER.

That night, Trae and I were excited to check out Florianopolis´s nightlife, as I´d read that Floripa is the Ibiza of South America, a.k.a party central. We wandered over to a local bar, ordered some Heinekens and caipirinhas (Brazil´s national cocktail, which is STRONG and lime-yummy), and watched the end of a football game between Peru and Brazil (well, I watched the end of the game, Trae was completely disinterested and distracted by cute boys). We eyed a cute French boy at the table next to ours, and eventually started chatting with some Spanish men who were looking to go out. We made our way over to a bar down the street that was supposed to the ¨best party in town¨. It sucked ass. We had to pay the equivalent of $7.50 USD to get in, the band played lame covers of bad American pop-rock songs, and the people were boring.

Thursday morning, Trae and I woke up and headed straight to Praia Mole, one of the many beaches in Florianopolis. The weather was shit again, though, so I laid around waiting for the sun to come out while Trae wandered around the beach. After it was clear that the weather wasn´t going to improve, Trae and I decided to eat a seafood lunch. When we arrived at our hostel, the receptionist had told us that the seafood here is world-renowned, and, since I´ve been eating a whole lotta fish since I started travelling, I thought I´d give it a go. We settled on one of the dozens of seafood restaurants that line the strip between downtown and the beach, and ordered the lunch for 2, which consisted of crab, fried shrimp, garlic shrimp, more shrimp, fried fish, french fries, salad. I was hesitant to even order this meal to begin with, given the high content of fried foods and the overarching presence of shrimp; shrimp is too insect-like for my liking (all those legs, that crunchy skin), and shrimp farming is bad bad bad for the ocean, killing dolphins and all kinds of other sealife. But I relented, thinking that I may only be in Florianopolis this one time (oh, how fluid the ethics!).

The crab came out. I ate it, it was delicious (and I didn´t have to tear any legs off). Then the fried shimp came out. I was nervous about the fatty egg-batter, but I ate the shrimp anyway. They tasted pretty good (besides the grease factor). Then the real deal, the shrimp with eyes and skin, came out. They were piled up on a plate, pink skins gleaming in the afternoon sun, boiled black eyes dead but pointedly once-alive. I felt my stomach churn, told Trae I didn´t think I could do it, and then a second plate of fully intact, dead shrimp (this time seasoned, garliced), was set down before us. Trae couldn´t get the shrimp down fast enough. He was lickin his lips and fingers hungry, and I just sat there, waiting for something to click.

David and I spent Boxing Day with his Aunt Marilyn and Uncle George at their beautiful home on Salt Spring Island. For dinner, Marilyn served us crab. Crabs with shells and legs, crabs dead at home. I just sat there, politely refused on sketchy, shifting grounds of veganism (oh, how those grounds have shaken), until David, 20 minutes into leg-ripping and crabmeat sucking, offered to prepare me some crab meat. I politely aquiesced, ate the delicious crabmeat, thanked David for being such an awesome boyfriend.

Trae, the good friends that he is, offered to de-skin some shrimp for me, and I let him. But I also didn´t want to interrupt his delicious meal, so I only let him de-skin a couple. I ate some fatty fries, some tomato and lettuce and shredded carrot, some fatty fried fish, beat myself up about all the fat, stared at the shrimp eyes, and then tried to de-skin some of my own shrimp. I cut off the heads with my knife, and pictured my dad laughing at me, remembered that when I was 13 and newly vegetarian (and what a haughty vegetarian I was!), he thought it was a passing phase. I´d proved him wrong, though, because, for the rest of his life, I managed to remain not only staunchly anti-meat, but staunchly VEGAN. Until I succumbed to a fish craving that followed me around for 2 years. It´s all been downhill since that first salmon bite 7 months ago, and I can hear his laughter now, could feel him smirking as I cut off those shrimp heads and then tried to tear off the shrimp skin. Oh, the legs, oi! Shrimp legs are so insect-like, all curled up in their boiled nonlife. I grimaced, my stomach churned, I thought I might throw up. Trae was thoroughly amused.

I decided that seafood is probably not a good idea. I´ve been wanting to read Bottomfeeder: How To Eat Ethically in a World of Vanishing Seafood for a long time, and I plan to read it once I return home from this trip. Being vegetarian for half my life has made me incredibly conscious of the impact my diet has on the planet, and I don´t think I can continue to eat seafood without a clear understanding of the fishing industry, its environmental impact, and the amount of mercury and other toxins present in food from the sea.

Iguazu

Trae (whom I bet a couple of weeks ago in Buenos Aires) and I visited Iguazu Falls on Monday. The park was amazingly beautiful, sublime even, the falls took my breath away, beats the shit out of Niagara, I finally saw toucans (those beautiful, colourful, big-beaked birds that I thought I´d see all through Central America, but didn´t) and falcons and two other species of bird I couldn´t identify and raccoon-like things called coaties and psychedelic butterflies and a tailess bunny-type rodent that was cute as could be. Trae and I had so much fun!

Chasing Che

Rosario, Argentina, was Ernesto ¨Che¨ Guevara´s birthplace. I visited the home he grew up in (well, I sort of stood outside the apartment but couldn´t tell which one was his), visited the Plaza de Cooperacion, and found the bronze Che statue that was made out of 7500 keys.

In lieu of posting photos of my Che chase, I am presenting pics of political graffiti from around Rosario.



























HELL YEAH

RADIOHEAD, memoria, verdad, justicia

March 24th is Dia de la Memoria por la Verdad y la Justicia, a national holiday in Argentina to remember, and oppose, Jorge Rafael Videla's military dictatorship from 1976 to 1983. The streets of Buenos Aires were alive with a youthful, hopeful energy that day, as cafes, restaurants and streetfairs filled with people milling, chilling and drinking mate on their day off.

This tame enjoyment proved a stark contrast to the chaotic energy that circulated through the Club Ciudad de Buenos Aires later that evening. I arrived at the open-air concert venue around 5:00 with Kristian, Molly, Chris, and Kyle* for the Radiohead/Kraftwerk concert, eager as hell to experience my fifth Radiohead show (and second one in 7 months!). Anyone who knows me knows how much I love Radiohead; they´re my favourite band, they externalize - in sound - the way I feel about pretty much everything, and I love that they´ve been together for 15 years and are still writing perfect songs that feel so good to listen to while doing pretty much anything: thinking, gardening, cooking, partying, loving, dancing, agitating, creating. I love love love them. I was really excited to share Kristian, Chris and Molly´s first live Radiohead experience, which, in my opinion, is nothing short of spiritual.

The show was phenomenal, of course. They played for 2+ hours, did 3 encores, played Kid A (the song, not the album), which is THE most beautiful song I have ever heard live, and sounds so different from the album version. It was all the awesomeness I´ve ever experienced at a Radiohead show, but with some serious Argentine hooliganism thrown in.

While Kraftwerk - a kitschy, electro-minimalist German band that revolutionized electronic music in the 1970s and 80s - were playing, people started pushing. Pushing real hard. Before long, there was a crowd within the crowd getting all riled, pushing and shoving people forward where there seemed nowhere to go. Since I was starting to get my Kraftwerk dance on, this really pissed me off. There are a few things I absolutely have no patience for, and one of them is outright inconsideration for the safety and well-being of others. Before long, I was swearing at some of the pushers (who were actually really hard to distinguish from the pushees since, at this point, everyone was pushing everyone around them just to stay afloat), giving them my erin death-glare and generally hating on Argentines.

When Radiohead started playing, it became even more chaotic. Because I am the world´s biggest Radiohead fan, I wanted to be as close to Thom and Jonny and Colin and Ed and Phil as possible. So I let myself be pushed forward, hoping that I would end up closer to the band than I´d ever been, inside the music if possible (or at least able to see my boys do their awesome thing up close and personal).

Entonces, NO. The band started out their set with 15 steps, the first song on In Rainbows, and I spent the better part of that song fighting to stay on my feet, gettin´ sweaty as hell, gettin´ covered in my sweat and the sweat and stink of hundreds of reckless Argentine man-boys. I was especially worred about Molly, whom I couldn´t see anymore (I´d become separated from the rest of my posse), because she´s really tiny and petite people have a particular kind of trouble in moshpits. Getting trampled at shows is a common phenomenon, and I didn´t want anyone getting hurt. After my earring got ripped out and my flipflops disappeared into the sea of surging bodies, I started pushing my way out of the pushfest, towards calmer grounds.

I eventually made my way out of the worst of the mosh-madness, and had to settle on only a so-so view of the band. But then I had to deal with people (mostly man-boys again) chanting what I assumed is a futbol chant. Argentines are superserious futbol fanatics, and I think that some of that fanaticism got transplanted to the Radiohead concert. I yelled real loud in Spanish for everyone to listen, cause they weren´t listening, and isn´t that the point of a concert, to actually HEAR the music, HEAR the band do their magic?

Things eventually settled down a bit more, and I got my revenge by busting out my crazy dance moves that only seem to really come out of me while I´m experiencing my favourite bands play live. It was hella fun, and I even enjoyed the barefoot walk home.



*I met Norwegian-Canadian Kristian about a week into my Buenos Aires trip at a deserted late-night shindig, and then met Molly, who´s from the Yukon, and Chris, who´s from Vancouver, through Kristian. They´re all really cool and we´ve become fast friends.

culture vulture

Since I've been in Buenos Aires, I've visited at least a dozen galleries and museums: the MALBA (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires), BOCANO, Centro Cultural Recoleta, Centro Cultural San Telmo, Palais de Glace, Museo de Arte Popular de Jose Hernandez, Museo Historico Nacional, and a smattering of independent galleries in Palermo, Recoleta, and San Telmo. Here are some of my favourite pieces from the MALBA, which I visited twice:



Tarsila do Amaral, Abaporu, 1928 (Brazil)



Frida Kahlo, Self-Portrait with Monkey and Parrot, 1942 (Mexico)










Antonio Berni, Manifestacion, 1934 (Argentina)



Fernando Botero, Los viudos (The Widowers), 1968 (Colombia)









Maria Teresa Ponce, KM 485 (from Oleoducto/Oil Pipeline Series), 2006 (Equador)

Check out Ponce's website, which showcases her photography and installations. In addition to the Oleoducto series, I really like Deshabitados, a series of photographs depicting drug users that was mounted in an abandoned hospital in Quito, Equador.

International Women's Day

I celebrated International Women's Day on March 9th by taking a bike tour through San Telmo and La Boca, two Buenos Aires barrios just south of the downtown core. San Telmo is dominated by tango, antique shops, carnicerias (Argentines love them some meat), cute little cafes, and the sunday artisan market. La Boca is a colourful (literally) working-class neighbourhood, the centre of which seems overrun by tourists.

La Boca:


in the San Telmo market:




sipping my first mate:


some cheesy, uninspired tourist tango


After I finished my bike tour and wandered through the market, I stepped into a clothing store. The (male) clerk handed me a rose and wished me a Happy International Women's Day.

Later on, as I was wandering around San Telmo in search of vegan food, a man stopped me to wish me a Happy International Women's Day, kiss me on the cheek, and offer to buy me a beer. His name was Maximillion, and I told him that if he could find me vegan food, he could buy me a beer. We ended up eating falafel, drinking red wine, and speaking in some seriously confusing Spanglish for many hours thereafter.

Maximillion:


A note on Latin American machismo and patriarchal Canadian indifference: in Canada, I have only ever been wished a Happy International Women's day by comrades; men who are academics, Marxists or anarchists who have some appreciation for feminist history and culture. I remember walking into work last year on International Women's Day and wishing everyone a happy happy and people looking confused and not knowing what the day was, or that it existed. Latin America may be machismo as hell, but at least the men here know what's going on. Somewhat.

During my bike tour, we stopped off at Puerto Madero to see Santiago Calatrava's Puente de la Mujer, a contemporary urban sculpture that's supposed to represent (albeit abstractly) a woman in the throes of tango.



We also checked out Ruven Afanador's photo exhibition, Mil Besos, on the docks. His photos are lovely pieces that celebrate womanist energy:

Argentine Amor

A series of emails/love letters I've received since I arrived in Buenos Aires:

Me robaste..., Carlos Alberto Valiente

Cuando duermo, me robas los sueños,
y al despertar me robas las horas,
cuando camino, me robas los pasos
cuando respiro, me robas el aliento,
cuando pienso, me robas el pensamiento,
cuando lloro, me robas las lagrimas,
lo unico que no puedes robarme
es el corazon..!
porque me lo robaste, hace mucho tiempo...-


EL PRINCIPE VALIENTE



Vestido de otoño, trepare a una mariposa azul,
para alcanzar tus sueños...

---------------------------------

Hi Erin,

I'm Alejo, we were talking together friday night at Los Cardones.

I really enjoyed the conversation we had and I realized that you are a very interesting girl.

I will send you another email soon inviting you to go out some night; do you agree?

So tell me what kind of program you prefer to do (going to drink something, to have dinner, to dance, to know a specific place you want to know, etc).

I'll be waiting for your answer.

I'm glad to have met you!

Alejo


Alejo Gabriel Larralde, MBA
Cel# (011) 15.6161.1034
Buenos Aires - Argentina

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My friend will be translating for me all I want to say to you, I could write it in spanish and I know you would understand, but I prefer it to do it this way...

First of all, I didnt write you sooner since I just met with my friend. Please dont think that I do this kind of things everyday. (Probably you would think it that way). Ill be honest with you, I really like you (I think that by what I did it shows it a little).

I would really like to see you so I can get to know you better (eventhough it would be hard for both with the language barier it I still want to try ;) to see if this can work out. Its hard that you will bealive me, but how can I explain that when you got close to the car I realized how much I liked your pretty eyes, voice and lips. Sounds crazy I know, but you caused all this. I would like to see you Thursday or Friday, whenever suits you better.

Here I leave my cel phone number. 1559458557

Goodbye Erine (I hope this is the correct way of spelling your name)


Santiago.

---------------------------

Hola Erin,
Como estas? espero que bien, seguis por Buenos Aires todavia o no?
Soy Heri, nos conocimos en Los Cardones no se te acordas.
Bueno espero que andes bien,
Besos

--
Heri

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my favourites: "what kind of program you prefer to do," "Sounds crazy I know, but you caused all this."

I also received a grade 2-style Valentine's card with cartoon hearts and puppies. Seriously.

After my visit to the Recoleta Cemetery last week, a man pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket as I walked by him. It had his name and phone number on it!