Year Reflection

Junior Year Reflection
While other students will take this time to write about their junior years and the 3 AP classes they took, my paper will differ quite a bit. I spent the last year of my life living in Cordoba Argentina and traveling within South America. I remember being asked what my expectations for Argentina were before I left. Honestly I don’t think I could fathom the idea at the time. Yet, today I can assure you that every one of the unfathomable exportations was met. As you can imagine it wasn’t always easy being so far from home. Yet I pushed myself, knowing that an opportunity like this only came once in a lifetime. A person in my life that I respect dearly once said the following about being an exchange student; “This person must be open-minded and understanding of cultural difference. This person must possess the initiative to bravely face the whole new world, but must walk with humility, or face rejection in the world. This person must be able to overcome fear, anxiety and his/her own shortcoming, and to persist when drowning in the depths of self doubt and insecurity. Finally, this person must embrace the fact that she/he must be an ambassador, whether or not she/he is comfortable in that role.” I can assure you I walked in humility as I misplaced words and struggled to integrate into the Argentine society. Fear, the fear to fit in on my first day of school, the fear to be liked by my family, the fear of not making friends; where soon to be overcome. And by becoming an ambassador I found true love for my country; the “melting pot” which brings us together. I can assure you at times it is not easy to represent such a controversially nation especially with our roots deeply planted into the history of Latin America. This same person concluded, “That the very fact that a person would voluntarily remove him or herself from the security of his or her own culture, context, and surroundings, is to be commended.” I don’t expect to be commended. On the contrary there are people I would like to commend. To the people that pushed me to pursue my dream, to my argentine friends and compeneros that were there for me in times of need, and to my families that made me a home away home. I cannot transcribe my year into a paper, nor will I attempt to. There isn’t a day that passes were I don’t find my mind drifting off to memories of summer nights in the countryside, cold winter afternoons sipping on warm mate with friends, backpacking through the mountains, participating in peace marches in memory of the deseparicidos, and dancing tango in the plaza as music blasted from old wooden speakers. Argentina will always be my second home; the remarkable adventure of my adolescence, and the missing place in my heart.

La Cumbre

The other day my Norwegian friend Emily and I decided to wake at dawn and take a bus to a town in the sierras of Cordoba called La Cumbre. The sun had yet to rise when I walked into the kitchen in the morning. I made sandwiches, cut fruit, and placed mate in my backpack, went outside and caught the bus to the terminal. La Cumbre is a two hour bus ride from the city. We decided to fill out thermos with water for mate. Note to self, scolding hot water on a bumpy bus ride is not recommended. Not only had we managed to spill mate all over the back of the bus but Emily sat on top of the pack of butter resulting in melted butter all over the seats and her pants. When the bus arrived at the terminal in La Cumbre we were anxious to get off before the driver noticed the mess we managed to make. We wanted to rent horses but after getting lost looking for the ranch and finding out it was 60 pesos an hour we concluded we were better off on foot. We headed back towards the town stopping by numerous restaurants asking if they could heat up the empanadas we had brought for our picnic. We ate lunch crossing the plaza on the riverside. I took out my notes to study for my geography test the next day but little concentration followed. We decided to go hike up the mountain to where a giant statue of Christ had been placed; similar to the one in San Palo Brazil (on smaller of scale obviously). You could see the entire town from where we stood. The houses all had a little English cottage look to them as a large population of Brits had immigrated here. We decided to continue hiking for about an hour when we came across another little river as well as some loose horses including a young foal. When the sun started to cast long shadows we decided we ought to start heading back towards the town. Back in town we came by a thrift store (something that almost NEVER exists in Argentina). We played around trying on Russian fur hats and leather bicker dresses. In the evening we took a bus back to Cordoba we ran into two Scottish girls and a young Irish backpacker. We all sat around sharing our traveling experiences in South America. It was the day I needed, fresh air, the country side, and good a friend.

The Pajama Party

The other night the girls in my class and I got together for a pajama party. I came prepared with pajamas and my cozy fuzzy green socks only to find out nobody else wore their pajamas. We made pasta I offered to make garlic bread. The whole time the girls made jokes about the bread. That they wouldn't be able to kiss their boyfriends for weeks, that garlic was retched and so on. In conclusion the bread was devoured before the pasta was served. During the night we watched movies and made popcorn (sweet and salty :) ) I can´t remember the last time I have had a good old sleepover like this. The ten of us slept two to each bed, three in the parents bed (who were out of town), and one on the couch. After a well rested 4 hours sleep we woke to watch Argentina play in the World Cup against South Korea. I was recruited to make a North American breakfast. The girls had done the grocery shopping the other day and had called every five minutes. “Brooke, how much butter do we need? Green or red bell peppers? You put cheese in the eggs!? “ We all piled up on the floor in front of the TV and cheered each time Argentina scored. Another successful game ending in 4 to 1. I forgot to mention the funniest part of this whole situation. The reason we were having a sleepover is because school didn't start till one the next day due to the soccer game. Can you believe it?! Only in Argentina do classes get cut for the World Cup events. Breakfast was an adventure from the moment it started and resulted in a lot of explaining. “Brooke this sauce is horrible on top of bacon.”...”thats maple syrup it goes on top of your pancakes dear.” We ate hash browns,pancakes,omelets,french toast, bacon, and a ton of fruit. The amazing part I managed to make everything with only one frying pan. The french toast was placed in the oven and omelets were made at the bottom of a large pot. Good food, good friends, good night.

Let the games begin!

The World Cup in South Africa has officially started. Weeks of preparation here in Argentina, street venders with flags, horns, hats, all decorated with patriotic colors of white and baby blue. Argentina was to play Nigeria at 11 this Saturday. I left walking to the gym at 10:30 everyone was rushing to get to a place where they could sit down and watch the game. As the entered the gym it was apparent there would be no waiting to use stationary bikes or weights today; it was empty. With first goal came cheering from other room where the owner of the gym sat watching soon followed by the honking of horns outside. As I left the gym the streets where empty, except for the group of guys watching the game from the kiosk across the street. Traffic had mingled down to nothing more than a little boy pedaling on a red bike carrying a flag larger than him. Store fronts closed. As I past the gas station all the workers were gathered around the television. The police had stopped in to get a glimpse of the game as well. Never had I seen such national spirit for a sport. Let the games begin!

Laughs

Yesterday a classmate wanted to call me sweetie pie, result muffin sweet :)

Fall

Northern Journey

The following are some photographs I took up north.....

Compeneros

I know I need to write about my journey up north, but I don’t have the motivation right now. I’d rather write you about my classmates. This year I changed classes; I wanted to study in the social studies sector of the school. It offered a class about history of the Argentine culture witch I knew I would only have the opportunity to study here. My new classmates are truly amazing! Last year my class was very divided within the group, and sort of cold. I still have my friends from the old class but each morning I can’t wait to go to school just to see my new compeñeros (classmates). We drink mate in each class; often between classes we the play the acoustic guitar and all sing a long. The Beatles always seem to be a hit, after all who doesn’t know we all live in a yellow submarine or here comes the sun. After school we get together at each others houses to have mate and criollos (a type of bread). They are all very unique, outgoing, and always
manage to bring a smile to my face. Gonzo the talented musician, reins over everyone with his height, he constantly loves to say random phrases in English; often vulgar that he learns from television. Juaco whose head is made up of dreadlocks is a talented artist even though he tries to hide it. Today I was feeling a little down and he came into the class shouting Baruk Baruk (Brooke) chocolate or vanilla he had bought to candy bars one for each of us. Juli is a an amazing dancer it reads as she walks. Fran is quite, an intellectual; he is going off to Germany next year to study. Ema, plays tennis he also offers great hugs. ¿Hey Che donde esta el mate? (hey where’s the mate?) That would be Javier who is always keeping track of who gets the next mate. I could talk for hours about the 30 of us and our adventures; but I’m sure I will bore you to death. For now I’m enjoying the little time we have together; and dreading the moment I will have to say
goodbye.

Birthday wishes...

This was a birthday wish from a firend that brought a smile to my face...
Being with you is a lot of fun
and now your age has got plus one
your hair is long, your dance is bad
but its ok; don't be sad
because Argentina is where you are
Riding free in a two stroy car
and thats ptreey good for a birthday, you know
so turn 17, you Denver- born hoe!

Friends Note

Sorry to everyone, for some reason I no longer can place photos on my blog. The option has somehow vanished when I click on "New Post". But any hew that doesn’t stop me completely from updating you on my adventures.
I recently returned from the North of Argentina with a group of exchange students. We traveled up through Mendoza, Salta, Juyjuy, La Rioja, Missiones, ect. I will add another post about our journey; but for the moment I would like to quote a passage a friend wrote in my travel journey. Dylan is a pretty cool kid; 18 and a young living hippy from Austin Texas. I know right, hippies exist in Texas?! That was my first impression. I’m pretty sure that is almost an oxymoron. Every moment with Dylan is sure to be an adventure; whether it be climbing mountains in the most southern city in the world to make a bonfire in the snow, or listening to his personal jam sessions on the acoustic guitar of old blues artist, or attempting to bring a little home to Argentina by making spicy chili and refried beans in a cabin Calafate. I have enjoyed our friendship over the year and like to share with you someone else’s outlook upon my year. ..
“So here is my response to your stimulating request that I write a sarcastic overview of our trip. Really the gift in that is just that ability to see truth exactly where you want to see it, and recognition is subjective to the point that just because because you think didn’t happen, doesn’t mean that it didn’t. You live your life that dies, and as I see it dead people don’t have to answer for stretching conventional reality a bit. So why not see the world as you think it looks best, not as they say it looks. The mountains, tree, lakes, people, and every little world within them are open to your own little mental manipulation so paint them any color you want because the moon looks a hella lot cooler in pink. That was a little bit of surrealist approach to the challenge, but is sort of rocks I think. If you really want to remember what we saw in our travels, then I’ll just say it was like mountains and water and shit. We really aren’t going that far away from each other in our grand trip back home, less now that this year has put distance into perspective. Bearing in mind that we live in the world, not just in the US, the distance in between us won’t be a good quarter of the country but just a short little leap in the globe, so I hope you will come visit me one day; and I’ll surely let you know if I ever find myself up in your parts.”

....

Well little update on my life since school has started. Last night was spent making five dozen chocolate chip cookies and two loafs of banana bread. Today I have my first photography exhibit and wanted to have a little North American treat to present my guests. The exhibit includes a collection of black and white portraits from here in Argentina and a few landscape shots. I have also started choir; I sing with one other girl soprano. All the songs are from Africa primarily South Africa (because this year the world cup is in South Africa). Ahhh I’m going to be late for my history of the argentine culture class. I will write soon! Besitos!

Jail cells and torture chambers became classrooms....

Last week was filled of events connecting back to my investigation over the Argentine dictatorship in result to the fact that 24^th  of March is a national holiday in memory of “El Golpe de El Estado”. Throughout the week at school videos were shown in the auditorium during lunch; each depicting a different child’s story that was born during the dictatorships kidnapped and placed in an illegitimate family. On Wednesday the students of Manuel Belgrano surrounded the balcony’s, gathered on the floors, and flooded the stairways as we paid honor the loss of classmates due the dictatorship.  An alumni of the school got up and spoke about his two friends that where disappeared from the school when the headmaster turned in names of students to the military; alleged terrorist that in fractured upon the state, otherwise known as 16 year-old children. The 10 photographs, black and white, dating back to the 1970´s hung below argentines celest blue flag, depicting the faces of the students. As the alumni told his story his tears quickly changed to anger “!Hijas de Putas!” (son of bicths!) in reference to the military. Hi anger could be easily justified but I found it inappropriate. That morning I had also passed a sign that read never forget nor forgive. What happened was horrible a clear violation of human rights. But these types of actions never result in peace. If Immaculee Llibagaza after being locked in a closet sized bathroom with 9 other women for 3 months during the Rwandan genocide was able to come out and face the man that slaughtered her family with forgiveness, what was the difference in this case? Not that I’m asking the same but anger will not bring vengeance. Off that subject for now… The 24^th I met with my friend to visit a detention center that was being opened into a museum. We boarded the busses in the morning that drove us to the outskirts of the city. In the morning only family members were allowed to enter. Students danced murga (a popular resistance dance originating from Bolivia spoken earlier about in my blog) Inside there was a photo exhibit and art work of children. After the detention center was closed it was turned into a school. Jail cells and torture chambers became classrooms. On the wall in the back where children played for recess was lined with hooks of where they would chain prisoners. On the same wall laid a hundred of small bullet holes. Families gathered with photos of their loved ones and family members. Around noon we headed back to Cordoba; we ate empanadas for lunch and got together with some other friends. At 6 we met up by the Cañada for the march. Tons of people gathered. NGO´s, families, university students. I gathered with my classmates. For about every five blocks we would crouch down repeating the names of the students followed by “presente!” At the end we would all run tearing through the streets to catch up with the parade. The parade ended with the city gathering in the Plaza de San Martin the masses were incredible. It was a once in a life time experience to participate in.

Darkroom

Film photography has always been seen to me as this raw beauty of an art form; an art form slowly demising due to our technologically developing society. In result I decided to go back to the basics. I picked an old Chinon thirty five millimeter camera and a role of black and white film. It took me nearly three months to finish the role. With film I found myself much more indecisive, the ability to instantly delete a photo when thought to be unsatisfactory was no longer available. At the same time it was most likely for the best.


Jose, started his photography career in 1950, he was 11 years old cleaned the floors of a darkroom studio. Today his carried out his passion for photography by opening up his own school. The two room studio hides away over the plaza de San Martin. The walls fainted paint reflects 1970s puke green. The first time we met I came to inquire about classes. We ended up talking for nearly two hours about photography. The following day I came with my role of film and photographic paper. The first day was spent developing my negatives. Sadly upon their development I found out that my camera had broken somewhere along the process. The role originally had 30 frames, on my 15th the frames images began to overlap as the film would not role. As big as a disappointment that was I still can’t explain to you the excitement of seeing those first 15 photos even if it was only a negative. I was so anxious to start developing that very moment but was faced with the fact that my negatives had to dry for 24 hours. So we called it a day and sat down to drink mate. Students passed in and out to say hello to Jose. I got to meet some very interesting people even a young guy that had worked in the ski resorts in Aspen.

The next day was hot even with the fan. It didn’t help our case that all the windows were closed to shut out the light. Jose helped me measure out the chemicals and place them into their proper bins. I cut various sheets of paper in to small squares to practice exposure times. After exposing my photos on an enlarger what is similar to a slide projector, I began dipping the paper into different chemicals. First the “revelado” for minute and 30 seconds, this is the most exciting moment for me as it is the first time your image appears on paper. Second the “detenido” for about 20 seconds at this point you can expose the picture to white light. Lastly “fijado” be sure that excess liquid are eliminated to ensure that there is no mixture of chemicals. I reproduced my first image three times with different filters increasing and decreasing the contrast. My first photo was a child in the arms of his father that I had taken downtown one day. I’m not going to lie I was overwhelmingly proud by the end of the day. I had always had more respect for film photographers and now it only became justified more.

Museo de la Memoria

People wondered down the alleyway that is nestled between the cathedral and tourist center heads gazed above as the black and white photos hung from light post to light post each portrait a victim of the argentine dictatorship. I stumbled upon this place by accident the day before. My good friend Maria and I were out exploring the city. We had heard that there was an underground Jesuit passage that laid under the main plaza of San Martin. Although successfully finding the entranceway we had arrived late and it was closed to our disappointment. On the left sat a building full of archives; I asked the women at the desk front where I might be able to come across some papers about the dictatorship. She began to draw me a little map out on a scrap of paper. Although I had crossed the Plaza of San Martin millions of times I had never stumbled across the museo de la memoria (the museum of the memory). The museum was closed by the time that we arrived but the office was still open. I explained to the women at the front desk about my 15 page paper I had written for school about the dictatorship and how I was looking to add to the paper. She looked at me with surprise; why was a 16 year old girl from the states investigating upon this touchy subject. And with her face full of curiosity followed her question that I could tell was already on her mind. I explained that I thought it was important for my society to know how our government had played a roll to assist the dictatorship and the ramifications of our foreign policy in Latin America. With my response a new sense of hospitality swept over she invited me to come back Thursday when new photographs would be hung. The next day I called two friends from school that had helped me a lot on the subject. Thursday we met on the cathedral steps, and shortly latter our eyes two where gazing up at the black and white photographs hung from light post to light post. The museum was a old detention center. Things for the most part where left the way they were found. Old papers sat in the desk drawer, cell chambers left ruminates of scratched messages. Newspaper articles where hung and poems could be found written on wall corners. In one room sat a TV a video of survivors and their stories replayed over and over again. Old stairs led to lightless basement chambers. And through an upstairs window the city could be seen. I could only imagine what it must have been like for the victims to look out that same window. While everything looked peaceful in the foreground an overwhelming sadness hung over the place. What really got me where the books families, loved ones, and friends had put together. Scrapbooks of victim’s life were full of photographs, notes, school papers, identification cards. Each told a story and at that point it was impossible to not to put a face to the 30,000 victims. Another room held old possessions an old electric scooter, records, a guitar, and clothing dating back to the 1970’s. Something about the dresses really stuck out at me as each was accompanied by a ticket of the person wearing it. Although I had read tons of books, watched documentaries, and had written the paper. A whole different emotion swept over me which reached a lot deeper than any story, book, or documentary.

The following photographs were put together by Gustavo Germano. The people missing in the pictures are victims of the Argentine dictatorship. These photographs speak louder the any words I could attempt to write.

Valentines Day

The other night I traveled to Unquillo with my two sisters. It’s a town outside the capital of Cordoba. Vale went to go visit her boyfriend Charlie and go out for dinner. The Lau and I went to a dinner concert where one of her friends Rawlfy plays in a band. The restaurant was set back in the woods on a dirt road. Upon arrival you had to walk across a little bridge and up the stairs past an old willow tree. The old stone building was set upon a hill; lights illuminated the garden at night. An eccentric cluster of tables formed a restaurant and a large painting of Frida Khalo hung on the wall where the band had set up to play. Things where tight even though there was only about twenty of us. I sat at a table with my sisters friends and we munched on pizza and empanadas. Music varied from Bob Marley, Mana, Jason Maraz, to BB King. The band consisted of three guys two who sang and played the guitar including our friend Rawlfy, and another who played the bongo drums and chimes. Our table was handed the mocarainas. We danced in what little space was available, it was a blast. It reminded me a lot of the Mercury café back home in Denver a bar and restaurant where friends I go to dance swing on Sunday nights. As we say here it had a muy Buena onda (translation a good essence). Not sure how to get back to the towns bus terminal we hitched a ride with a family that also attended the event. Seven packed in the little truck we took the back streets to avoid the police another Argentine adventure.

Family Number 3

I now reside with the Deptris family, in the quaint barrio of Lomas de San Martin on the north side of town. I have three siblings. Vale the youngest is 20; studies film and photography at the university. Her distinct haircut with a dreadlock in the back reflects her unique eccentric style. Here cleft note tattoo on her neck give away her passion for music; she sings and plays the guitar beautifully. She is currently teaching me the acoustic guitar. Marco is the only boy and 22, he is a little shy but I know that he likes to swim and that he loves pasta. He works with my father and mother who are architects and have their own business during the week and I don’t see a whole lot of him. He has started taking business classes at the university and would really like to do more management type of work. Lau has followed in her father’s footsteps and is now studying architecture as well; she also enjoys drawing and various crafts. She is currently making lamp shades out of yarn. My father is a dedicated Rotary member and just finished his term as president. He is also an artist and his work is hung throughout the house. My mother is a retired history teacher and now helps my father with his own business. Last but now least is Bernie our dog; a little mutt medium size who resides in the backyard. Oh wait I almost forgot the fish tank in the kitchen my dad’s personal hobby. I have never felt so at home with any of my families sadly I will only be here for a month. It’s a temporary situation until my third family gets home from vacations. So I’m working hard to enjoy the little time that I have.

Lip Stained Walls

My best friend Maria arrived in Cordoba the other week from Denver; she is here doing an independent project on dance and its influence in society. Wednesday evening we adventured out to our first tango class. Following the Cañada an old river that runs through the city we entered the art district; which is primarily occupied by hippies that vend their work on the street side and old antique stores bursting with vintage trinkets. The room began to fill, as the women took a seat to strap on their dance shoes. The sound of the ceiling fan was soon drowned out by the melody of tango music. We were told to rise and greeted by a kiss on the cheek. The dusty mirror, with a crack in the left had corner reflected the line of pupils from the other side of the room. We were ordered to walk, taking long strides back and forth across the dance floor we were taught the basic principles to tango. Afterwards, we were broken into groups of those who had tango experience and beginners. The teacher Marie told us to place our hands on the wall and practice a basic side turn front and back step. Concentrated on my feet I was oblivious to the lip stained imprint on the wall. As I begun to gain confidence I lifted my head catching a glance out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what could have been the story behind the imprint. Halfway through the class we took a break, even with the ceiling fans we couldn’t overcome the summer heat and resorted to dancing outside on the patio. I really felt as if I had tapped into the Argentine culture as the summer evening slipped into night. As a result of dancing bare footed my feet were stained black a slight reminder of the night’s activities.

Little Goodbye Notes…

A letter written to my friends Rani and Madi for their plane ride home to New Zealand…

Rani & Madi,

Its always sad to see friends off the un-longing fear of never crossings life’s paths again; but something tells me that I will find myself down under one day in New Zealand. The both of you cherish some of my fondest memories here in Argentina….star gazing in Calafate, tea cups and scrapbooked journals, the sweet sound of an acoustic guitar, and overwhelmingly large pots of pasta. Oh how the list goes on. As people turn the battered pages of my journal they always seem to encounter the picture of the six of us. I’m always more than delighted to tell the story of our friendship and our very distinct personalities. Lolly, the outgoing adventures one who’s laugh never seems to end. Rani, who serves as a constant reminder that true love, still exists. Lena, the kind & loving friend who you can always search refuge in or to provide a shoulder to cry upon. Francy, the quirky actress, who to all is secretly comic. Madi, who’s angel voice and mother mentality, can sing you to sleep. And me, somehow I fit into this contraption. We each fill the gaps, completing the other. As we set off on our different paths, we each offer something distinct in life. May we always remember the people Argentina taught us to be. Carry the valuable lessons you learned here wherever life might take you, as well as a cup of mate. May Argentina serve as a constant reminder of your young free spirited self. And as this letter comes to a close; I hope our friendship will not. Travel safely!

Besitos

Brookie

Christmas

For the last two weeks I had tried my hardest to create the Christmas spirit. I baked cookies on top of cookies, sewed stockings for my family, made a wreath; which unfortunately doesn’t work as well with palm leafs, and listened to Christmas music. Yet I failed in all my attempts; maybe it was the fact that I was walking around in shorts and t-shirt and dying from the summer sun; or the lack of or practically nonexistent Christmas lights. The only place that felt remotely like Christmas was the shopping malls were decorations could be found in ever store front window. The festivities began on the 24 as the entire family gathered in my grandmother’s house; there must have been around 35 of us. The food never ended a blend of Armenian and Argentine dishes took up three tables. Every aunt tried to make me feel comfortable while insuring me that I hadn’t tried there dish yet and stuffing a third helping down my throat. At midnight fireworks illuminated the sky, as well as little paper hot air balloons that would float away into the night until catching fire leaving a pile of ashes to float down. Considering that it was technically Christmas day at this time we gathered in the house to open gifts. The week before I had learned to sew and made almost all my gifts; embroidered towels, an apron, stockings ect… My favorite gift was a painting done by my young talented cousin of a gaucho on horseback riding off into the sunset; it now resides on my bedside table. Dessert lasted till around three in the morning when the elders started to head home. The younger generation got together with all the Armenian youth for another party. For the most part it included a lot of drinking (I not included) and horrible singing; the attempted Christmas carols came out as mumbles and screeches till 7 in the morning. The 25 is spent recuperating and sleeping till around noon. At lunch a small portion of the extended family met at my cousins to make pizza on the grill and swim. Another Christmas had passed by. Surely one the strangest I will probably ever take part in. Yet I loved it being surrounded by family something my childhood had lacked and breaking away from Americas materialistic Christmas was liberating. I had found the true Christmas spirit when I had given up looking for it.