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. 

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.

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..."

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.

#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*.