It's Raining Ash... Hallelujah? Springtime in the Garden State of Argentina

When I initially received my assignment from Fulbright, I had never heard of Tucumán. As any self-respecting millennial would do, I immediately set out to snoop around with my Googling and Wikipedia-ing skills. The information available was scanty, but the nickname that kept popping up was El Jardín de la República ("The Garden of the Republic").  My first reaction? “Great, I’m going to live in the Jersey of Argentina.” To be fair, I have never been to New Jersey, but through various media outlets, I have gathered that it is the punchline of almost all New York jokes, and there is an explicable infatuation with jagerbombs, housewives, Zach Braff, and people with epithets like "Snooky" and “The Situation.” As yet, I have yet to see any references to actual gardening.

It was the same… ahem… situation when I initially arrived in the province. Apart from the green hills of Yerba Buena and San Javier nearby, there did not seem to be much in the way of flora or exceptional produce. Although it took nearly 6 months, Tucumán, at least, is finally beginning to live up to its nickname. Spring is in the air – birds are chirping, the days are longerl the stores are liquidating their winter collections; huge, plump strawberries are being sold by the kilo; and perhaps most notably, the flowers are in bloom.  Suddenly, the city has erupted in a burst of bright yellows, pinks, and oranges. Naturally, being from the Northern hemisphere (they refer to all Americans as yanquis, regardless of their actual home state), I mentally categorize these hues as “Easter colors,” despite the fact that it is September.  Some of the streets are lined with rows and rows of lapacho trees, creating an endless stretch of pink, which delights the girly girl deep inside of me (very deep). The end result is magnificent.

Additionally, in a stroke of administrative genius (rare in these parts), somebody had the brilliant idea to plant orange trees around the city. The oranges themselves are inedible, so my theory is that they were planted for the express purpose of providing citizens with enjoyment when the azahares (orange blossoms) bloom in the spring. These creamy white flowers emit the most intoxicating, mouthwatering scent – its’ like vanilla mixed with jasmine mixed with honey, and a hit of citrus. It’s romantic and sexy and spicy all at the same time. Every time I chance to stroll underneath its branches (which is easy for me, because I’m short), I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

So it’s probably no wonder that I have been hacking up a dry storm at night for the last couple weeks. You see, in addition to being the season for pretty flowers, pleasant outdoor constitutionals, and holding hands, spring is also the time that farmers prepare their sugarcane for harvesting. Tucumán is actually one of the largest producers of sugarcane in the world. So what is the fastest, most efficient way of processing large quantities of it? Why, burning acres and acres of field, of course.  As a result, even on the sunniest days, there is an unpleasant grey haze of dust and smoke that lingers in the air (I guess the Jersey metaphor goes both ways).

That's not precipitation or fog. That's smoke. 

On windy days, the particles in the air are painful to the point that people wear sunglasses and scarves to protect their eyes. On calmer days, the debris settles on the ground, sidewalks, windows, and cars creating an oppressive film of dust on every flat surface. It has become such a hazard that Weather.com sometimes lists the Tucumán forecast as “smoke.”

 An actual screenshot of a Tucumán weather forecast. 

As luck would have it, my body seems particularly sensitive to these climactic abnormalities.  There have been several nights where I’ve been racked with a violent dry cough that keeps me from falling back asleep. Some mornings, I wake up too congested to breathe comfortably, or I have a sore throat that results in my speaking in a husky, drag queen type voice. At first, I was worried that these symptoms might be indicators of a chronic cold or something, but without fail, they subside as the day goes on. It really is just worst at night and in the morning. As a by-product of trying to determine the initial cause, however, I have stumbled upon some consistent patterns that have proven to be reliable predictors of the weather. For example, congestion usually means a drop in pressure, likely indicating rain or a cold front coming.  Coughing means that I should prepare myself for a particularly intense day of smoke or dust, while sniffles just mean that there is crap in the air, but it will still be sunny and pleasant outside. It’s almost as if my overactive immune system has developed  Wolverine-like heightened senses.  So while it’s unfortunate that my last couple of months in Tucumán will be plagued with unpleasant side effects, my fantasy of having a mutant superpower has finally been fulfilled. It’s not nearly as glamorous as I would have hoped.