Part 1) Dogs on Roofs: Valience

Howls come from above.

Look up.

There they are guarding and protecting from above.



Standing at the fence, wall, nook or cranny they have to look through, or simply with their head hanging off the roof edge.



They aim to drive away intruders, in the crackdown on neighbourhood crime.



Loyal to their territory they aim to defend. Mostly they just oversee the goings on of the neighbourhood.....

 Sounds come from afar.

Alert. Standing to attention is our guard. It could be a whiff of trouble.

Despite the probability that it just some cat crossing the road, or the wind brushing leaves up and down, our guard earns his right as fierce protector of his castle.

Beware indeed, beware. These puppies ain’t messin about. . .

Check in again for part 2: Dogs behind bars.

Neighbourhood Watch: “The guard dogs of the barrio”.

It has to be acknowledged that hoy en día, that is to say nowadays; we live in an unsafe world.

People are forever talking about insecurity of the streets in Argentina, and crimes being committed in the barrios of BA.

This piece has been written to acknowledge some of the most underestimated security guards in Argentina.

“The guard dogs of the barrio”.

I’ll have you know that they are not street dogs, for street dogs would be far kinder to that of a stranger strolling down the street. Hence, these are family dogs.

Their mission: to guard and protect.

Dare to tread, but tread carefully through the suburbs and outer neighbourhoods of BA.

If not, you could be mistaken for a burgler.

Waka Waka Africa... Football frenzy reaches the ballet studio.

I used to be a dancer. Nowadays I train to attempt to regain my former capabilities and to keep myself in the dance world enabling the possibility of re-inserting myself one day.

Each week I take contemporary classes in a well-known studio in the Nuñez neighbourhood here in BA.
I arrive at 7.30pm on a Friday evening after finishing a crazy week at work, to face the flourish of the dancer’s world when I arrive.

Ribbons in flight, hair pins, bun nets, leotards, and well used pointe shoes are being thrown around as the girls from the previous ballet class prepare themselves to go home in the changing room. There is a flurry of mums organising the little girls, helping them pack their kit bags to take them home.

The older girls casually talk about dance tecnique, steps, boys, school, and their experiences at the other studios they train at.
(A lot of the girls at this particular dance studio also train at the Colon, which is Argentina’s highest regarded dance organisation – comparable to Englands Royal Ballet Company).

This is a typical Friday evening at the studio.

However, the hype of the World Cup, has been putting everybody into a frenzy recently. This, consequentially changed the topic of conversation to more things football related.

Walalala eh o ehh, porque esto´es Africa! Hey! The girls sing as they stuff their shoes into their bags...

Surprised I am, at the knowledge the girls have during their discussions of tactic, passes and whether Argentina will win against Germany in the big match on Saturday (I am writing this of course, after Argentina lost 4-0 in that fateful match).

Walalala eh o ehh, porque esto´es Africa! Hey!

Football is in the air, and as each girl starts to leave, it is clear that each one is going home with the thought of what will happen in the morning.

The contemporary dance girls and I enter the studio to begin our class. Stretching begins, but before we commence the warm-up there is a light-hearted but passionate discussion about... football. Conveniently I have two teams to support during this World Cup, one of which had already lost out to Germany last week.
All eyes on my other team... Argentina.

My teacher Paula says to me, “and Melanie? Where does the blood connection sway you”, she said. “Who will you hinchar for?”

Cooly I say, “Well, Argentina of course... I mean, por supuesto”. All eyes are looking in my direction.

“Vamos todavia!” she exclaims, as the other girls applaud me for my dedication to the Argentina selection.

A whir of passion fleets through all of us, and for a moment everybody is insanely patriotic.

There was a pause.

We all look at one another.

The atmosphere clicks, and suddenly switches back to dance. The music goes on, and we begin the warm-up as usual. Nothing else was mentioned, but it was taken into account.

Everybody was nervous about the Argentina team taking the stage in South Africa the following day...

I wonder what it’ll be like next week after having learned the match’s result... sad times in our football crazed world...

Hasta pronto.

M

Flying Flesh

Stepping out of my door in BA, no matter what the agenda or the day, things happen which never fail to surprise me.

I admit I am pretty accustomed to how things roll here. That said, having grown up in the UK, certain practices and norms for society over here I simply can´t get used to. Random things happen all the time. Sometimes things I consider to be good, bad, some just downright inexplicable.

Curious indeed for this British Boluda.

Today in my local “Chinos” (Chinese-run supermarket), I had simply popped in to make an inquiry. Oblivious to the world I wait my turn to be able to talk to an assistant. I turn my head, and I am confronted by a wall of cow flesh (or half a dead cow to be precise), bouncing past me.

The cow carcass is huge (albeit only a half), and the little man dressed in white overalls carrying it looked slightly dwarfed in size in comparison. Slapped over his shoulder he was pretty swift in movement, and looked like he knew what he was doing as he hauled the load through the middle aisle of the supermarket.
My eyes followed him as he went to the “butchers quarters”, at the back of the shop and disappeared for a sec. Curious, (and a bit nosy) I tilt my head and look down the aisle to the meat counter, and through the back door. The half cow is hung on a hook in the back room.

Urhh.

Ok, alright, fair enough. Even though having almost been whacked in the face by dead cow leg a few seconds ago, I shake off the immediate shock. Acceptance of the situation filters through my mind, and just as it does…. oh, the other half of the cow cadaver comes flying through.

This time I can do nothing but stare. Everyone is just getting on with their business as per.

The British side of me has seen dead cow before, but not right up in my face. It was being carried as if the bloke bearing the burden had just finished skinning the poor bugger.

Odd odd odd.

In the world I am more accustomed to, these kinds of processes are well-hidden, and with good reason.

Later I pondered how hygienic it is to carry meat in such a way (uncovered and over shoulder), also wondered how long the meat had not been refrigerated for.

The Chino supermarkets don't have great fame for their hygiene, but this one in particular turns off its fridges at night to save money on electricity.

Best not think about it.


Lesson learned?
Don´t buy beef from my local Chinos.

A thought bubble please: Can we open our minds a little?

Recently I went on a trip to Rosario. I came across a good looking lad who kindly tried to chamullar me (for those of you who don't understand this expression, it's when an Arg guy chats you up). We got to talking, and he was like,

"oh, so you're not from here, whereabouts are you from?"

Well, well. In just over a year that I have been living in Buenos Aires, you can imagine just how many times I have been asked this particular question.

"Well," I said, "I am from England, but I am half-English half-Argentine".

He looks at me puzzled, with a slight smirk on his face. He says,

"Cómo que, Cómo es eso?" saying, "Well what's that all about then?"

Ah here we go again, I must explain my life story once again... well not really, but I feel like I should try to at least make a little effort, so I keep the conversation going...

"Yeah my mum's from BA and my dad is English, from London. I was born in England, but I live here now."

(whilst I talk the intrigue turns to uber intrigue)

"Yepp, I am half and half", I say wholeheartedly.

The guy almost goes to question me in more depth about that, but turns to ask me about which country I prefer overall, and would prefer to live in.

The conversation became even more complicated because it began to pull towards him trying to make me define which nationality I preferred.

(the funniest thing was though, that he did so by trying to get me to express my opinion on who owns the Falkland islands...)

Now, this isn't the first time that this has happened to me living here. In fact it happens on a regular basis that people categorize you into one nationality, mostly by where exactly you were born. But this isn't necessarily the correct way to approach the subject of ones cultural identity, as it simply isn't that black and white.

I came across some literature which brings forth some wonderful questions for analysis, which provoke deeper thought on this matter, which I will discuss in further detail in later posts.

The next quote (rather long) is by Stuart Hall, a Professor of Sociology from the Open University, UK.

"Questions of cultural identity have become central to the agenda of contemporary social and anthropological research. As the waves of forced and unplanned migration transform the hitherto well-defined and apparently stable cultural formations of the globe, so the issues of how and with what groups, do peoples on the move identify themselves - and how this is influencing the self-identifications of people from the indigenous, native, or 'host' societies - has come to constitute a subject of enormous public interest and debate."

.....

Now, it is something to consider - giving that the Argentine society was formed by immigrants having come from Europe at the turn of the twentieth century....

Stuart Hall continues,

"Are the cultural identities of social groups constituted primarily by stable, structural features of social organization, such that the vicissitudes of movement, dispersal, and displacement cannot deeply influence or disturb them?"

"Has ethnicity acquired something of the permanence of shared genetic dispositions?"

"Do we bare our cultural identities, the signs and symbols of our 'belongingness', like indelible number-plates on our backs?"

"Is ethnicity moving from a matter of 'descent' to 'assent' - not the rediscovery of our 'roots' in the past, but a tracking of our 'routes' to the present?"

(... and most importantly...)

"Is cultural identity those imperatives we obey, or that which we perform?"

........

These are all questions I consider to be hugely valid and important to wonder and ponder on.

All opinions are welcome...

That said, I will leave you all now to ponder on what you consider to be your own cultural identity...

Is it important?

Tremendous Torrential Tormenta part én:

The return from work on not just any Tuesday.

The 19th January 2010

The scene:

I am in town and my classes have finished for the day. Distracted. A little light headed from the heat, I look up to a screen outside some office and see that it’s 34 degrees outside. Bleugh, yuck. Stuffy day and feels like the world has toppled onto my shoulders and flies are buzzing inside my brain from the sounds of the traffic blurring past me.

Heavy greyish-black clouds weigh over my head, and distant thunder sounds say to me that the storm is on its way. I dont get too worried, it has rained many times since I have been here, I am not afraid of a little storm. No need for concern whatsoever. So, I ignore the clouds, get on the Subte(underground) at Facultad de Medicina innocently thinking, “oo I must pop by the pharmacy in Belgrano on my way home”, knowing it'll probably rain, but by the time I get to where I need to be, I will have missed the shower.. ..

I am minding my own business on the Subte hoping to go unnoticed as I zone out and enter the world of my own head whilst listening to my trusty I pod.

Now, there is one thing I should explain about Porteño folk. Strangers talk to strangers without knowing one another, sort of as if they were already friends. It is commonplace and considered totally normal.

In London this sort of chatter pretty much doesn't exist on public transport. If someone talks to you on the London Underground whom you don't know, you are well within your rights to induce a funny face, make a snide comment, or in fact pretend entirely as if they don't exist. Here it is slightly different, something which I will write about in more depth in future posts.

So, I am just day-dreaming, travelling on the D-line when a random woman sits next to me (who, I’ve got to be honest, I did not acknowledge in the slightest until she started talking to me) says, "You know what apparently it's absolutely horrific weather outside."
I look at her puzzled, as if to say, “oh right, are you talking to me then?”

Apparently she was, as she rambled on, "Yeah I am totally screwed because like I didn't bring my umbrella and like I have to pick up my kid, and you know I don't have a car, and err my husband had a problem y... que se yo......." Her story went on and on, something about a child... I don’t know. I sort of tune out for a bit (consequentially you can imagine that my selective hearing has been perfected over here).

All of a sudden I tune in again and she stands up hurriedly as this is her stop. I say goodbye cordially, and she buggers off still blabbering. Into my own world again, we get to Congreso de Tucuman. Middle of the rush hour, I think nothing of the hoards of people crowding on the staircases to move up to the top of the station. When I get to the main part of the station, I acknowledge that something random is happening, as everyone is just standing by the exit next to the escalators staring upwards. Everyone is chattering away, and a lot of people look stressed. Confused but intrigued, I move to the front of the crowd to see what the fuss is all about. I get there and see rain cascading down the metal stairways roaring through, as I have never seen before.

It is night-time, but you can see the sheer force of the downpour through the gleaming orange street lamps on Cabildo Avenue. The heat is astounding and the humidity is 100%, and every living thing is perspiring. The rain water is trickling into the Subte station, and I wonder what to do. To top it off, I am wearing open sandals. No matter. The British side of me has taught me to be tough.

Chin up darlin. I suck it up and proceed ahead. I walk into the sheet of wetness and within moments my clothes are totally saturated. I get to the top of the stairs and look around. The streets are chaos, cars beeping, people shouting, colectivos stuck in a huge scrambled jam. I get my bearings and by which time have totally disregarded the prospect of going to the pharmacy as planned. Now I just need to figure out how the hell I am going to get home.

Belgrano is a beautiful neighbourhood of BA, but at the same time,the pavements are not trustworthy, nor the drainage system. Water is warbling through the streets causing huge puddles the size of miniature lakes between the pavement step and the road, making it impossible to not get wet feet.

Drains are dribbling and overflowing. Screw it. My sandals are officially ruined. I just have to get to the colectivo stop without being swept away. (I tell you, a bloody lifeboat would have been handy, but I foolishly forgot to pack that in my bag before work this morning...)

I manage to make it one piece to the stop, having passed various clothes shops where it seems all the shop assistants and customers are barricaded in by waterfalls of rain slop making it impossible to gain access through their entrances. The shop staff stare at me through the tall glass windows as I scramble through this mess.

There is only one other girl standing at the stop. We both look at one another, and with one small affirmative nod, both of us acknowledged that we were boludas importantes (a right pair of eeediots) for having braved this mess. Finally the colectivo swings in and more people appear out of nowhere running our way.

Rah!

Middle-aged women, students, kids, all pile into the doors of the colectivo half lost in the sludge of the puddles trying to get in. The vehicle moves forward and sharply breaks causing all 10 of us soaked individuals to topple down onto the floor like bowling pins being sharply whacked.

I pick myself up and see that two women have got into a fight after having shoved one-another repeatedly and start screaming at each another, “ba-ba-da-ba-ba-badaanaiiii”..... I thought there couldn’t be anymore chaos today, what with all I had seen already just from being outside. The huge argument caused all “normal” (civilised and quiet) people on the bus to almost applaud this outrage.

Civilisation had pretty much gone out the window by this time of the day. All I could do was just crack up laughing. Things had just gotten so ridiculous by this point.

On rolled the journey and I just about got home in one piece.

Sods law came to find me though and my day of surprised wasn’t over.

Trapse in, kick off dead sandals, walk down hall.

I enter my room and the ceiling is falling down from a leak caused by the rain....

Algo mas????

Tremendous Torrential Tormenta; Beyond British.

Introduction to the piece:



I have been looking after my friends three year-old son. Our daily routine was for me to pick him up every day from nursery, and walk down the road and round the corner to get to his house.


Albeit a short walk for an adult, through the eyes of a youngling this was a huge adventure. Over time we have been caught in all types of weather, from scorching heat and suffocating humidity to strong winds and torrential rain.


One particular day, my friend (the little one’s auntie) had joined us on this exceptional trail. It was raining (as readers of my blog will have noticed, it has rained quite a bit in BA in recent months), and Miss auntie was trying to explain to the little sir why we needed to be careful in the rain.


Kitted out in Spiderman rain gear with an excellent miniature umbrella he listened intently as auntie spoke. She said: “Es que cuando llueve, se hace todo mas difícil”. 
Right she was and since, this quote has stuck in my mind.


Everything does become more difficult in the rain. . . .