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.

My White Whale: Leaving my Heart in Cafayate

March 30, 2010

When we were in Cafayate, it crossed my mind to purchase some cheap sunglasses. It would be my fourth pair in two months, since sunglasses purchased abroad seem destined to be left in places such as dodgy cafeteria tables, customs counters, and Honduran shuttle buses. Nevertheless, being a woman (and a tacaña one at that), it did not stop me from keeping half an eye out whenever I saw a vendor selling imitation Dolce & Gabbana’s on the corner.

I can visualize the location perfectly in my head (if you are in anyway familiar with my sense of direction, that’s saying something). Just outside of the Plaza Mayor in Cafayate, on the alley running along the shorter side of the quadrangle, next to the famous Casa de Las Empanadas, there was a little wholesale store that sold a little of everything. It was crammed with useless trinkets like a Chinatown dollar store. Towards the entrance of the store, there was a rack on which hung several backpacks. At the time, I had been playing with the idea of buying a cheap kiddie backpack to use for work, since my REI packs were a little ostentatious for day-to-day use. Plus, the novelty of having a juvenile backpack is attractive.

When I close my eyes, I can see it perfectly in my head. Right on the forefront was a great plastic backpack that featured my childhood (and lets be honest, adolescent and adulthood) superheroes: the X-Men. It wasn’t just any X-Men backpack (Wolverine, Cyclops, and a couple other major characters I care very little about). It had MY favorite characters – Rogue, Gambit, Nightcrawler, Storm (among others). I’ve always been attracted to the sort of “B-List” characters that don’t necessarily get action figures or top billing in the movies or video games. I remember Halloween in fourth grade, when I tried in vain to find a Rogue Halloween costume. At the time, I was young and impressionable, and I foolishly assumed that Mattel, much like Santa, made toys and merchandise to satisfy every little girl and boy's particular caprices. I won’t go into the grisly details of the end result, but it involved latex dishwashing gloves and green sweats that were way too big for me. There are no photos from that Halloween for good reason.

This backpack had Rogue. I even remember the version of Rogue they used, because it was taken straight from a comic book cover:

It was perfect. But we were in a hurry to get to our picnic in the bodegas (incidentally a total fracaso) and we did not want to be weighed down by additional bags, so I chose not to buy it at the time. I figured that now that I knew the design existed, I could just buy one when we got back to Tucumán. After all, markets and stores with racks in the front just like this one were a dime a dozen in my much bigger, much more cosmopolitan capital city.

Wrong. When I returned home, I quickly found out that all those glossy, colorful backpacks featured our favorite comic book webslinger. Now, I’m a big fan of Spidey. But he didn’t shape my childhood and cap off my university studies like the X-Men. He’s not the one I wanted. And yet, the more stores and kiosks I visited, the more I realized they were the same: Spider-Man, Dragonball Z, Disney princesses, Hello Kitty, and Ben 10 (whoever the hell they are). Very rarely, I would stumble upon the occasional Avengers bag with popular characters like Wolverine, the Thing, Hulk, and of course Spider-Man. But my heroes were nowhere to be found.

For a fleeting moment, this search became an obsession. Every time I would pass a shop window, I would quickly scan for a sign of my dream backpack. My eyes became accustomed to quickly identifying the categories. Barbie was always pink. Hello Kitty tended to be red. Dragonball Z was orange. And course we all know what the ubiquitous blue and red was. As time progressed on, it was as if Peter Parker were mocking me with his popularity. I was seeing his paraphernalia everywhere – in addition to backpacks, there were t-shirts, hats, stationary, stickers, and even ski masks. But no sign of my X-Men. Some of the storeowners did not even recognize the name. Selene joked that it was discrimination, because “people fear what they don’t understand.” It was funny at the time, but since then, the mission took on this additional symbolic meaning. It became my Penelope. It was my emblem of girl power in a heavily machista culture. It was my symbol of childhood innocence. It was my sign of support for the underdog. It was my shout-out to the kids in high school who weren’t awesome at sports, but played musical instruments and wrote poetry really well. And it was nowhere to be found.

Since then, I have become resigned to the fact that this backpack does not exist in Tucumán. It does not exist in Yerba Buena. Or La Rioja, or Corrientes, or Puerto Iguazu. Or even eBay. There’s a chance that it may be found somewhere in the megalopolis of Buenos Aires, but I only have a week to explore, and I've grown weary. Whenever I pass a shop window, I’ll do a quick once-over out of habit, but not with any sense of expectation or real hope. The thrill of the chase gradually evolved into stoic resignation.

Yesterday (Monday, June 7, 2010 – more than two months later) I happened upon a desultory little bazaar near my apartment that had a display window full of haphazard goods such as stuffed animals, winter gloves, tools, and cleaning supplies – not unlike the nameless stuffed-to-the-brim shop in Cafayate. On the top rack, I saw a backpack that said “X-Men” and $33 pesos. My heart skipped a beat. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be the Avengers backpack mentioned above with a misprinted label.

There is probably a lesson to be learned from this episode, but I have no idea what it is.


Don't wanna talk about it.
I say why not?
Don't wanna think about it.
I say there's got to be some good reason for your little black backpack