The Interview

  As my time here comes to a close, I saw it fit to attempt (key word) to try and initiate some sort of cultural exchange. I wanted to try and share some of what I've experienced with the Argentinean people here with people back at home. Now I could've put some serious effort into this and initially ideas were booming...

•  Organising and link with my old secondary school and the school I'm currently working at. 

•   Doing a spread of interviews with a range of different people that I've met here of all ages and sizes. 

•   Getting in touch with local English press. 

  Stardom was on the horizon...

  But, in reality, I just got tired listing those things let alone putting them into place; so subsequently it was traded for a Facebook post and getting five teenagers at school come and talk to me for 20 minutes in a break time. An equal substitution if you ask me. Also I thought putting something on Facebook would get a quality, sophisticated response. After all, I'd seen everyone's opinions and political analysis on Brexit and Donald Trump. Well...

 Looked like we were going for more of a James Franco to Kim Jong-Un approach to this 'cutting edge' interview. Either way, you've got to give the people what they want so I wrote up a list of questions including a mix of my own and my friends' inquisitions. Inevitably, on the day, I left the list at home so I pressed record with a blank page and just my own mind to carry me by. Always dangerous. 

  Luckily I was joined by some great kids, and their enthusiasm fused the interview and made it somewhat publishable! My guests for the day were (left to right) Diana, Ana, Mile Camila and Facundo - five of the school's 3rd grade of secondary (Year 10 equivalent I think). I allowed them to do the interview to be done in Spanish (semi-bribery on my part) and subsequently everything you're about to read has been translated and para-phrased (like my very own dictatorship...) but I've made sure to keep it as close to the original answers as possible. So here we go, enjoy! 

Becoming an Ultra - Step Two

  When I stepped onto the pitch of La Bombonera back in August it made such an impression that I wrote an article about it (doesn't take much to do that I know), but it was only just a taste. It was just a small canapé of one of the most famous institutions in world football. From that moment, I wanted the full dish. I wanted to live one of my biggest footballing dreams and watch Boca Juniors play at La Bombonera.

  I have spent the last three months sniffing out every possible avenue that would lead me to the cancha. Getting Boca Juniors tickets is no easy feat I must add. Due to extreme popularity, only socios (members/season ticket holders) can get tickets for matches. There is no online or in-person box office and you get in via your contacts - however authentic or, more likely, dodgy they may be.  

Waiting For The Call Up

  I looked at extortionately-priced tour packages - aimed at tourists that had no other route into the stadium but via a chunk in their wallets - but couldn't bring myself to pay £130+ for a football match that wasn't against River Plate (the renowned Superclásico). I spoke to Boca fans and even some socios trying to weasel my way into a ticket offer. I even got a few but in a more casual 'I'll take you to see Boca before you leave' sort of way. None of them quite came to the fore. 

  So chances were looking bleak. Could I really forgive myself if I'd come to Argentina, and spent a huge amount of time in Buenos Aires, without seeing Boca Juniors play? Hm, unlikely. Luckily a power above acknowledged my dilemma and sent me a contact through a friend. A contact with the golden ticket. My Willy Wonka was called Christian and was a socio and all-round Boca fanatic. He even used to play for the youth teams and had a cousin in the system at the moment. I was put in touch and I quickly agreed to buy two tickets for a match against Rosario Central - I was in and the dream was very much alive. 

Becoming An Ultra - Step One

  At every camp I counsel at, at most classes at school, with almost every social occasion I've been in here I've been asked the same question by Argentineans...

"¿De cual equipo sos en Argentina? ¿Sos de Boca? ¿Sos de River?"

As a football fan myself, I understand the essentiality of this question, which makes it all the more embarrassing when I'm forced to become the person I hate. 

"Erm, I don't really have one..." 

  Oh no, I'm part of that brigade now. The type of person that would say they support England if asked what team they support back at home. As football is such a religion over here, it's even less acceptable to be a fence-sitter, and your credentials as a football fan are limited without pledging your allegiance. At camps I have half-heartedly claimed to be a fan of Boca Juniors, Independiente or Estudiantes de La Plata, yet without feeling a true sense of belonging or dedication to either. The situation was getting desperate and something had to be done. 

Into the Final Third

  As somebody who is on a mammoth trip abroad, and somebody with an Apple smartphone, its only predictable that I have an application on my phone dedicated to a countdown. You know, the ones that you track the approaching of big upcoming events with big exaggerated numbers of months/days/hours/seconds/mili-seconds and so on. I actually only downloaded mine a few weeks ago and I haven't really been paying it much attention, but today I decided to take a look at it...

Flight to Argentina - 114 days, 15 hours, 57 minutes since 12th July 2016. 

Homecoming (Flight Home to the UK) - 44 days, 8 hours, 3 mins until 18th December 2016. 

  So I'm a month and a half away from heading home and ending my Argentinean adventure, well into the final third of my first half of my year abroad (all the fractions). This revelation gives me a mixed bag of emotions. I'm inevitably excited to fly back to the UK into the depth of British Christmas, to see family and friends for the first time in half a year, to be home. Yet an equal sense of sadness and panic set in when I realise my time in this incredible country is nearly up. 

6 weeks left in this beautiful
place.

  I'll be the first to admit that on leaving the UK I never expected to feel so at home on the other side of the World as I have done. If you'd asked me to predict my sense of feeling on the 3rd November, I would have guessed that I would be eager for the last month and a half to pass so I could jump on the plane back to the comfort of the UK. Yet my current emotion is one of stark parallel. 

 I feel more comfortable and more integrated here than ever, with a host of new friends and acquaintances (English and Argentinean) that it'll be sad to leave behind. There's a list of things to do and places to visit in this country that I'm running out of time to plan. The 18th December is as much a deadline as anything. So I thought I'd write this little update piece to outline some of my plans for the next 6 weeks before I head home to England.  

The Wait

  6:47am - I leave the house and walk up to the entrance of my barrio. I take a seat on the grass. It's a beautiful early Monday morning (if such as thing exists) and the week dawned upon me with a crystal blue sky. I was awaiting a taxi that would come and pick me up and take me to Capilla del Señor to work as a councillor on another camp. The idea of a taxi picking me up and driving me directly to the camp location, as opposed to negotiating a number of local buses and their awkward timetables, was a complete luxury. Even the 6:10am wake up couldn't bring me down, and the fact I'd managed to get myself ready and out the house with time to spare was pat on the back moment.

  It was going well.

  The taxi was due to pick me up at 6:50am. I wasn't stupid though, I knew that could mean anything between 6:50am and an undetermined hour (or number of hours) later. They're not exactly renowned for their punctuality here. Ever since I arrived in Argentina it has been something that has prodded and poked at my typically British obsession with being on time or worrying about something that is not. We are the class swat and they are the lazy kid at the back teasing us, dragging us into their ways. Either way, it meant I wasn't particularly phased as the minutes passed without the arrival of my horse and carriage.

Turn Down For What Now?

  As a 21 year old, I am currently sitting in a state of limbo between youth and adulthood. Whilst I am on the point of becoming a 'proper grown up', I still see my playground days as a recent memory and therefore I would have counted myself as pretty intact with the trends of the youth of 2016. Having worked here as a teacher and a camp councillor, as well as staying with families that have children between the ages of 6 and 19, my exposure to the interests, jokes and loves of today's tomorrow has been intense. It's something that's been a big part of my time here and has shocked and amused me enough to justify an article #LetsDoThis. 

  Before I start on the content of this kind of 'case-study', it's worth saying that this isn't just a couple of kids in class that exhibit this stuff. It's universal. I would say a decent 80% of kids between 5 and 15 that I've encountered over here (which is a lot of kids believe me) have showcased some of this stuff that I'm going to talk about. That's what strikes me most. If one snotty kid flips a bottle and dabs when celebrating its landing, it's not just a small entourage that appreciates it - but everyone. The cool kids, the sporty kids, the clever kids, the boys, the girls. It's quite the epidemic.  

  As you walk through a school playground here, I could easily make a bingo card of things you would see or hear - and you'd be guaranteed a quick-fire full house...

  I won't go through all of these, but just the key players. The songs for example (bar one) are just in trend at the moment and they'll pass as all pop music does; although the hysteria/addiction of the kids here for the latest tunes is really something. However the bits I do talk about in a bit more detail have been in it for the long run and their longevity is as impressive as their simplicity and popularity. 

Meet the Parents

  "So Jack, what do you know about dead bodies?" This was the kind of occasion when a year abroad comes into it's own. It was hardly the category of question that I had been faced with across my 7 years of classroom Spanish interactions. I was sat with the father of Carlos (the Dad of the family I am staying with) in the corner of a post-Baptism family celebration. He reminded me instantly of Robert De Niro's character in the Meet the Parents series. The head of the family with a fascinating history of stories to tell. He took a shine to me, and we had a really in-depth chat about his trip to London and the DNA of serial killers. But not before I mistook him for a stripper.

Honoured to be a temporary member of
this fantastic family 

*Background Information*  Ever since arriving in Argentina, I have presented myself as 'Jack' (or 'Shack' as it is now) and frequently been responded to with a jubilant cry of 'Jack El Destripador'. Primarily I assumed they meant 'Jack the Ripper'; however after experiencing some hysterical laughing with the phrase, a part of me convinced myself that 'Destripador' ('D' sounds almost silent) might mean 'Jack the Stripper'. I'd never heard of any such thing but I guessed it might be a thing here. Anyway that was what I was now going with (with a weird half-hearted stripping charade to match).

  So here I was. I presented myself as 'Shack' and the grandfather laughed as he bellowed 'Shack El Destripador', before saying that he himself used to be a 'Destripador'. I nervously chuckled a long as he already struck me as a joker and I thought he was pulling my leg. This was until he invited me to come and look at his car, in which there was a captain-like hat sitting on the dashboard - you know, the kind a stripper might wear as part of a costume. At this point I was a bit more shocked and he continued to say he did it for a bit of cash here and there. I even asked some questions (that now seem transferable between both a stripper and his actual job) and got answers. It was only when he asked me about the dead bodies that I realised that 'destripador' does in fact mean somebody who deals with dead bodies (and 'Ripper') and not 'stripper'.

 Complete and utter 'vergüenza'.

All Black Everything

  A Bucket List is one of things that everyone has, whether they know it or not. Whether they call it a bucket list or a list of things to do before they die, it's an almost constant factor of our DNA. Whether you're watching natural phenomenons on TV, tweeting about your dreams or liking Instagram pictures of paradise locations, it all accumulates towards the hypothetical holy grail of your own personal 'Bucket List'.

Just like watching Uni Varsity...

  Before coming to South America I identified a few items of my personal Bucket List that would be achievable across my Year Abroad. We're talking things like visiting Christ the Redeemer, seeing a glacier, watching a South American football match and witnessing Iguazu Falls (see Chasing Waterfalls to see how that went). There were other items on my list that were put aside for a later time in life, considered unrealistic whilst in this corner of the World: run a marathon, see the Northern Lights, watching the Haka performed live by the New Zealand rugby team.

  Little did I know that, fast forward only a couple of months into my adventure, and I would be standing front row of the local crowd watching the All Blacks line up to perform their enigmatic war cry. We were up against the gated fencing that lines Argentinean stadiums and listened to the autonomous hush of the audience, as an incredible aura of respect circulated around the Estadio de José Almafitani. The black uniforms lined up and the Haka was performed in a way that - predictably - triggered the emotion of awe and admiration that comes when witnessing the elite.

  See the All Blacks perform the Haka live - Tick.

Chasing Waterfalls

  When TLC first told me not to chase waterfalls as a youngster I vowed to myself that I would follow their fool-proof advice. However things change and I soon found myself in Northern Argentina staring at 'La Garganta del Diablo' (The Devil's Throat), the most impressive natural feature that I have ever seen. For the first time in a long-while I was speechless for a reason other than a failed retrieval of Spanish vocabulary. The showcase piece of the Cataratas de Iguazu blew me away on the spot as the devilish spit of the waterfalls flew into my face.

  From the moment I arrived in this country, the waterfalls in Iguazu had been sat firmly at the top of my tourist to-do list. The National Park that ties the two South American powerhouses of Argentina and Brazil is a world renowned phenomenon, but I had met very few people that had actually been. So when I got a few days off work to leave the country and renew my tourist VISA, the choice of destination was very simple. 

  Even the prospect of a 19 hour bus trip each-way did little to flicker my enthusiasm and before I knew it I was sat on the coach, with my mate Ed, watching a Spanish dubbed version of the Eddie the Eagle movie (strange choice to say the least). I fell asleep after a 7/10 coach meal of Milanesa (obviously) and awoke to a new window view of red dirt roads and tropical rainforest. This is what I was talking about. 

Dancing In The Wind

  Picture the scene. I am stood in a tarpaulin tent with rain lashing down outside and the hurricane winds lifting the sides up and letting the hellish conditions pollute my temporary dance studio. One child is attempting to hug the stranded, flea-ridden mut that is known as 'Dead Dog'. Another is stamping against the temporary flooring letting in a flood of muddy water. The rest are looking towards their councillor for inspiration. The councillor in question was me, and I was trying to conjure up a dance routine that would suitably pass as a 'punk-rock' edition of Hakuna Matata.

  Welcome to camp.

'Team Jack' about to perform the
Circle of Life set with my
'choreography'

  This was my last group out of four, having already worked me and three other groups of 11 year olds through Circle of Life (Jazz style), Just Can't Wait To Be King (Hip-Hop) and Can You Feel The Love Tonight (Opera). In case you hadn't already noticed we were preparing for a production of The Lion King, which would uniquely incorporate a variety of dancing styles. In charge of this was a man with only two years of dancing experience in a 'street dance' group called 'Dance Dudes' between the ages of 8 and 10. If we add this to years of drunken nightclub dancing then we have quite a resumé - but that didn't quite suffice to 35 eleven year old Argentinean kids.

  I was one of six councillors working on the Lights, Camera, Action English immersion camp with a theme of musicals. As you can imagine I wasn't necessarily picked for my suitability to the theme, but pretty much at random in the line of poor sods that had to spend 3/4 days entertaining a group of school-kids. In this case it was an epic four-dayer, the longest camp provided by the company, and with a theme that had never been done before. If being called for a camp was like jury-duty, I'd been handed a complicated fraud case.

Just Argentinean Things...

  As you've probably gathered by now weird things tend to happen here that aren't normal. Big things and little things that I experience or see that just don't tick in my head. The problem is that I've been here nearly two months now and I'm becoming immune to it. Such is this that things pass by without me thinking 'oh my God I need to write about this', but that doesn't stop them being weird. It was only when I looked back at my most recent weekend, for example, that it struck me that a few un-normal things happened.

Just pick your roast chicken off
a stick and you have your
 Friday night dinner.

  I'm going to write this article with a key, so after something that may be construed as 'Argentinean Things' I'm going to put (AT). So just keep that in mind, let's go...

  With a busy couple of weeks coming up with trips to Buenos Aires and Iguazu sandwiching my first camp as a councillor, I decided to spend the weekend at home with my host family. After some basketball and football fun (half player/half referee) with the kids, I went with the host Mum Tatiana to pick up dinner. This was just like home, chilled Friday evening going to the chippy to pick up dinner. Except the chippy here does not sell fish but a whole roast chicken (AT) to accompany your chips (which are the same chips as 'fish and chip' chips). I speculated to myself that this shop would be very busy on Sundays back at home - a quick way to acquire the star of your roast dinner.

Language Barrier 101

  Immediately this article might seem odd. I'm a university student studying Spanish for the seventh year of my life. To the untrained eye that equals sublime fluency and basically a Latin citizenship, but other language students will understand otherwise. This little guide to what I've experienced so far is aimed at all people, from those around the world in similar situations to those who ask us to 'say something in Spanish' in the middle of a nightclub. A learning curve for all.

  It all started as I strolled up to the immigration officer at Ministro Pistarini International Airport in Buenos Aires. I was confident and I had that 'yeah I'm starting my Year Abroad come at me' swagger going on.* I threw in a few of the 'Si' and 'Gracias' so this guy knew I wasn't just a tourist, I was here for business. It clearly worked as I was quickly struck with a sharp:

"Hablas castellano?" 

This was what I wanted, time to shine...

"Si si mas o menos, lo estudio a universidad" *God I'm good I bet that impressed him*

  I was greeted with what can only be described as the equivalent of riding Stealth at Thorpe Park in Spanish listening. Holy s**t. Not only did this dude launch a hurricane of palabras my way but he was speaking with a thick Argentinean accent. For anyone that (like me at the time) didn't realise the extent of the difference between Spanish and Argentinean Castellano - it's really different. I very quickly crept back into my little British shell...

"Hablas ingles..."

How to Fix an iPhone in Buenos Aires

  I stood there in the middle of leafy Palermo soaked to the core. I watched as my new acquaintance of 5 minutes rode off into the distance on his motorbike - with my mobile phone. I was left behind with an already sopping piece of paper faintly showing an address. I'm pretty sure this was the opposite of the situation I was meant to be in when in a South American capital city.

  Wet, phone-less, clueless.

 Let's go back to the start. After my photo-loss drama at La Bombonera I decided enough was enough and I needed the battery changing. I visited the 'Unofficial Official' (I know right) Apple Store and they told me my battery was broken. I could of told you that mate. He then told me to Google a local shop to fix it. I hate to think the horrors of difficulty that this guy went through to get this job as 'Unofficial Official' Apple helper. 

La Bombonera - The Beating Heart of La Boca

  As I read footballing magazine FourFourTwo a few months before I departed for Argentina, my excitement to travel to one of the Mecca's of the Beautiful Game grew only stronger. In a list of the World's best stadiums, I read through the impressive list enriched with sporting history, poetry and glamour. Camp Nou. El Estadio Azteca. Wembley Stadium. Yet these iconic arenas only acted as the supports acts for the main event, voted #1 football stadium in the World - La Bombonera, home of Club Atlético Boca Juniors. The rock star of South American football.

Photos taken by host Mum but
I can assure you I was there...

   From this moment it became an immediate goal of mine to visit this famous stage. I wanted to see Iguazu, Patagonia and the variety of natural wonders that Argentina possesses, but they all came second to La Bombonera. It may seem odd that a football stadium would surpass these other natural miracles but it was a personal thing. I've always had a passion for visiting stadiums and on my prior travels it's always been on the itinerary. The Bird's Nest in Beijing, Stadium Australia in Sydney and Yankee Stadium in New York have all been prior trips that have left a positive impression. Where they regarded as the best football stadium in the world though? No.

  That was La Bombonera.

Onto Pastures New (An Ode to Gualeguay)

  As I waited at Gualeguay bus terminal the view was sub-optimal to say the least. The area was scattered with a variety of the 101 Dalmations extras that roam the streets of Argentina. One was lying-down looking as though it may never get up again. One scratched the persistent fleas from it’s mangy hair. Another did a piss against a bin. It was hardly the glamorous send-off that one might have expected. I mean I did appear on local TV a matter of weeks ago for a grand total of 3 minutes, where were the paparazzi and adoring fans? Judging by the looks of other passengers towards me, I was less David Beckham and more Katie Hopkins.

Gualeguay in all it's glory

  Despite the modest farewell, it didn’t distain my mind-set and my admiration for this little town. I had loved every second of my month in Gualeguay and I was touched by a tint of sadness that my time here had come to an end. I remember being shown the location of my first placement and being (wrongly) disappointed. A remote town three hours north of Buenos Aires that required a fair amount of zooming on Google Maps before the name popped up. My journey from Buenos Aires consisted of 3 hours of grey wetlands, it looked like I was entering an apocalyptic zone, but how wrong I was.

Would You Like Some Dulce de Leche With That?

It’s the traditional British post-holiday question that often leads the conversations with family, friends and colleagues alike after a week away in the sun.

“Oh how was the food? You never quite know what the food will be like in these places...”

  We’ve all heard it. Anyhow, I suppose when the week away in Benidorm is replaced with a trip to the other side of the world it is quite an intriguing question. When that place is Argentina, world-renowned for its steaks and quality of beef, it’s a topic high on anyone and everyone’s list of inquisitions.

  I’m not traditionally a foody. I eat and I enjoy what I eat but the food is generally not a make or break element of any trip I take. As I’ve mentioned a few times since I’ve been here, in Socratic pensiveness, ‘comida es comida’. You eat it, it fills the spot, it might give you a nice taste along the way. Anyway this all accumulates to the fact that from this article you should expect more Gregg Wallace and less John Torode*.

Flags, Pizza and The Mafia - A Trip to Rosario

  As a football fan, the mentioning of Argentina produces an instinctual reaction of one name to come to mind - Messi. The Greatest of All Time represents something of a religious figure for fans of the beautiful game, and subsequently a pilgrimage to his home-city of Rosario was an essential on my Argentinean itinerary. In addition to Messi, Rosario also boasts the title of the birthplace of the hipster's favourite revolutionist Che Guevara - that makes up quite the fantasy tea party if you ask me. To top it all off, Rosario is known as the most dangerous city in Argentina, rife with the trafficking of both narcotics and human beings...

  If that doesn't scream tourism honeypot I don't know what does.

#StopCumbia2016

  The langauge. Leaving my family, friends and girlfriend behind. Getting myself involved in drug cartel business. These were all things that bounced around my head pre-trip. You know those nights where you lay awake and speculate exactly what lies in wait for you for the next six months. They’re the ones. Anyway, one thing that definitely did not enter this zone of precaution was music.

  Why would anyone worry about music? The music is usually not a defining feature of a place, let alone a country, and is rarely something to use as Trip Advisor-esque judgment factor. As well of this I class myself as a fairly flexible music fan. My taste ranges from Drake to Red Hot Chili Peppers and even stretches to a bit of 1D – I’m an ‘accept all sounds’ kinda guy. I could cope with everything. That was until this lovely type of music that the South Americans call ‘Cumbia’ came along and hit me as nicely as a slap in the face.

  I was crammed in the back of a car with 7 other people at 2:30am on a Tuesday night when the true horror hit. We had been driving around Gualeguay – a small town – with no particular destination for about 45 minutes and I wasn’t understanding the conjoined plethora of gossip being shared frantically amongst my fellow passengers. The only thing I had to listen to was what was blaring out of the stereo. Cumbia.

The Wonder of Mate

I thought I would very quickly explain why the title of this blog is what it is. At first glance it appears completely irrelevant and one would probably question why I have avoided every possible Argentinean stereotype (Let's Get Messi and The Hand of Blog were close contenders). However I decided to go with something that has epitomised Argentinean culture from the moment I landed to the moment I write this post....

The Elements

The Mate.

Just to get it out the way, 'The Mate' is not the bloke you go down the pub with or that person you vaguely know that you bump into in a club. In Argentina, 'The Mate' is life. Mate is a hot drink that is consumed at all times of the day, no matter the activity or social occasion.

In class? Mate.

With your friends? Mate.

Driving? Mate.

It's nuts how crazy everyone here is about this drink. But what is it?

The Buzzcut Epiphany

  As I heard the incessant buzzing of the Argentine barber's clippers attacking the back of my head, I waited in nervous anticipation for the revelation of exactly how short he was cutting my hair. I had asked for short, and my usual is a close cut 0.5 on the back and sides so how much of a disaster could it have been? Yet in the moment, rationalism goes at the window replaced with the images of being a social outcast with my terrible new haircut. Eduardo - the gentleman whose hands my life was in - started clipping the back of my head with the combine harvester-esq tool and left me hanging before coming to the sides and into my vision. It was in that exact moment, as I waited second-by-second the buzzing to reach the side of my head, that I decided to write this blog.

  

  Now I never planned on doing a blog. I had a whole year away ahead of me and in my mind there would just be too much to write about (a brief glimpse into the minimalistic work-ethic of a university student there). It would just fade into a memory of something that promised so much but gave so little - much like the careers of Joe McElderry and Freddy Adu. Yet the best blogs are not the ones that are forced but the ones that are fuelled by an accumulation of events that just can't go without sharing*.