one of the principle advantages of being politically retrograde, economically struggling and geographically isolated is that, no matter how sophisticated you may or may not be, you are unwittingly forgiven an egregious degree of political incorrectness (then again, perhaps i only speak for myself; that is, yes, i herein bare my colors: foreigners' prejudices are both amusing and strangely becoming at times. at least, that is, when they differ from one's own. do not humor and fascination occur when our worldviews are merely shaken but not stirred?) that is not to say that only argentina, albania and alabama share this affinity; i would imagine frogs, krauts and canadia-landers to be as epistemologically 'incorrect' as the next kid on the global block, if only by omission rather than commission. what is different, then, is what you take the liberty to say. and in argentina, the difference is huge.
a personal disclosure: i do not condone argies bigotry, i merely hope to expose it (which anyone with a half an ear, .6 of a frontal lobe and a quasi-functioning esophagus can readily do), comedify it and, yes, have a chuckle. tis like what paul mooney said in response to michael richardson: "anyone can make jokes about race, so long as it's funny." i am certainly taking him out of context on this one. he also said that kramer could only make up for his capital blunder so long as he performed the same act on stage at the apollo (after which greta van susteran - yes, i'm using paul mooney and greta van susteran in the same sentence - enlightened her audience by reminding them that the 'famous' theatre was in harlem; to which mooney responded, "trust me, sweatheart, the apollo in harlem is as white as you, so don't worry about it, it's safe.").
there was a time when i lived in a small town in the pampas called 'general villegas,' a micropolis that took its trusty name from one of the more infamous leaders of the 'conquest of the desert' - that is, patagonia and the inland provinces southwest of buenos aires - toward the end of the 19th century. at least the yanks had the good sense to wage their wars of genocide before the invention of the telegraph and global standard time zones (which i imagine greatly facilitated reporting such matters), much less call it a 'desert' campaign. we even named a large chunk of our emerging sporting franchises after the brave resistance with which we were met. the argentines, oddly enough, still name their teams after the english patrons for whom they 'conquered' the 'desert' to begin with (if hints of cynicism or antipathy toward my new gracious host appear, bare in mind i'm living with and being taught by militantes for whom the yanks aren't the sole hemispheric culprits). anyway, back to villegas (which is currently the cause of national scandal, a matter we'll touch upon momentarily).
upon arrival in the small town, i would often wander the streets by day - in between giving lessons, of course - and make for the corner dive at night. humbly opening onto a principle corner, my initial social stakeout boasted a small pool table, an abundant supply of ice-cold 3-peso/liter quilmes and mani salado - and a straggle of interesting, if not quite sober, patrons. i'd bet a peso here and a peso there, usually lose the game, but have a 'local' story in between - and usually a new mate or two after each encounter. they weren't the most strapping gentlemen in town but, remember, this is another advantage 0f travel - or at least removing oneself from the usual socio-economic-educational comfort zone: the further you get from where you started, the more fun, interesting and, frankly, welcoming, they tend to be. and the spot on the corner was no different. as my language teacher reminded me this morning, tis only the reactionary middle classes - identical across the globe - that we need to worry about. i'm still not quite sure if i'm to be rich or poor, though. enough of that, however. the point is that upon arrival to my host family's house, they would ask me where i'd been (these days, my youthful gaze could come in handy: young enough to 'not know better' though old enough to 'hold his own' should the ramparts give way from the other side of the tracks. and yes. the town was literally, socially, aesthetically, footballishly divided by then-defunct tracks). i had been to a history lecture at the catholic church earlier that night (deft alibi, i know), though in the end decided to disclose most of the whole truth - i'd been back to the corner spot to shoot pool with the laborers and drink beer. "no - ebaan! you must not be with these people! the negros are sure to take you for a ride!" every family i stayed with - and they seemed to toss me about throughout town - repeated the same misgivings. "only negros smoke shit - and play pool - and labor - and eat cheese on sundays." i was stunned. i'd only caught my first glimpse of real-life (white) american racism at a high school party on the south side and was flabbergasted these things still existed (in words, if not in every civic body with some social function). yet in argentina - on the pampas - the nebraska of south america - the trou de cul de rien de l'est - there isn't a black person for hundreds of miles. "what do you mean, negros?" i asked one of the landed families i happened to be staying with for several weeks. "no no no - ebaan - no son negro de piel, si no negro de corazon!" ah, yes, now i see.
No comments:
Post a Comment