Via-what?

venturing through boggy fields on a cloudy day

Day 8 (Fri, Sept 24)

Today the brothers and I get to venture out into the countryside in order to locate some missing fence posts. Kaiser, who takes care of the animals, enlists us to search a rather vast field. I’ve been wondering, for more than a week now, why everyone on the farm wears rain boots to work. I got my answer today. The entire field was waterlogged in about two to three inches of rain. It wasn’t swampy though, just pasture with lots of mud. While we didn’t find any of the fence posts, I do catch a glimpse of a field mouse and several ducks. Although they’re nothing to write home about, the ducks sound a bit like the motors of old beat-up cars as they flap their wings and zip past you. Also, I suppose I did just write home about ducks. Hmmm. 

Sexy Breakfast

Day 8 (Thu, Sept 23)

            Buzz. Grumble. Mumble. Sigh. Shuffle. Shiver. I look at my watch. I don’t think I’ve ever consciously read my watch face at this time. At least not AM. It’s 6:31 on another beautiful Argentinean morning and the sunrise outside my bedroom window is a breathtaking blend of warm milky pastels. Pardon the verbosity and the blag hiatus and hello again, only this time it’s pronounced hola. That’s right, I didn’t get mugged or stabbed to death while navigating Buenos Aires. I’ve made it to my first farm just outside the small rural town of San Andrés de Giles and life is sorta awesome. Even though I sort of addressed it, you’re probably wondering why this post is so delayed. I’ve been experiencing the sharp learning curve of traveling alone in a foreign country, and I’ve just been very busy, among other things. Also, I’ll be making posthumous posts of days past, and yes I know I used that word incorrectly but you know what I mean. I will also post pictures when I can. With that said, let’s dig in, media res style, oh yeah!

Today I have the pleasure of making breakfast. I’m a little anxious, because I know everyone’s counting on me. They don’t yet know the extent of my competence. I manage to slap together a decent breakfast considering the aliments I’m working with. Cut up apples, orange, we’re out of cheese for the moment, rice from last night and hot milk and water. In less than thirty minutes breakfast is done and we’re off to work on a typically chilly morning (note: not Chile).

Working... hardly  

            Today’s job is to finish hoeing the huge dirt plot so that it’s flat and aerated. There are vestigial mounds left over from the furrows of yesteryear that we must level, and because working hoes isn’t hard enough, we also have to pimp slap them stubborn weeds into submission with a scythe. But we already did that. Right now we have to chop up the earth. It takes hours upon hours, and it’s not easy. I tell the brothers that my back is starting to hurt and they show me the appropriate technique. They tell me that each tool has a proper motion and if you can learn it, then the work will be much easier. I experiment with their advice and it helps plenty. The brothers consist of Estefan, Filipe and Joel. Joel isn’t actually related to either of them, but he might as well be. They all wear hemp clothing, have the same long curly hair, come from Costa Rica and essentially define kindness. More about them later. Twelve o’clock and it’s lunch time. A bell makes sure that we know it’s lunchtime but we know. Everyone knows. We might wake up for breakfast, but we work for lunch.

Lunch is amazing as always. How can you go wrong when all of your ingredients are gathered within a half mile radius, straight from the ground, picked only earlier that day? Anyways, we all eat rather quickly because lunchtime is also break-time, and it’s unwise to abuse potential nap time on a farm. I take the opportunity to fashion a boombox out of a bucket, my ipod, a small travel speaker and some duct tape. I think one the brothers called me Chuck Norris, but I know he meant MacGyver. Ok back to work. Talk later.

My First Blag Entry

       Greetings internet brethren! Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alec and I'll be your guide for the next three months as I navigate Argentina's countryside, the inner workings of my own media-addled brain and the always nourishing world of blues and rock and roll. This being my first post, I feel somewhat obligated to provide a certain amount of introductory content, an orientation to my blague if you will, but more on that later. First let me say, I'm genuinely psyched out of my mind for this expedition, and I'm really excited to be writing for an audience, you guys: my friends and family. Enough with formalities though, let's get dirty.
       I know what you're thinking. What the hell is a blague? For that answer I must digress. I forget exactly when it happened, but once upon a time not too long ago I was surfing the internet and I happened upon a rather humorous t-shirt. It simply read, "No One Reads Your Blog." If you don't understand the joke allow me to explain. Within the internets there exists discrete social circles analogous to the stereotypical social groups that you probably remember from high-school: the sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads...not to quote a John Hugh's movie or anything but you get the point. Anyhow, bloggers used to be a diehard internet clique back when the internet was just starting out (remember when AOL sent you a cd-rom every other month?). Bloggers were for the most part made up of social pariahs who couldn't really make friends in the real world, but online they had their very own support group of anonymous friends who empathized with their problems. Anyhow, things are different these days, and blogging has become a respectable activity. Where was I? Oh yes. So, I found this shirt online, and at that very moment I vowed to myself that I would never start my own blog. Well, I like to think of myself as a man of my word, so being the punny logophile that I am, I've devised a way around that vow. Listen close now. This is NOT a blog. I know you thought it was but it's not. This is a blague, which brings us back to the question: What in tarnation is a blague?! Well, calm down and I'll tell you. Blauge [bläg] noun: a joke or piece of nonsense. ORIGIN mid 19th cent.: French, literally 'claptrap, nonsense.' So, please remember: I am not keeping a blog. I'm producing quality kitsch nonsense. One last PSA: from this point forthwith I will be spelling blague ---> blag. Used in a sentence. "Did you read Alec's latest blag?" "What the hell is a blag?"
       Well, I must be off to slumberland, but before I bid adieu, I'd like to give a shout-out to my suite mates Tom, Diego and Casey. I really miss you guys and I plan on introducing stump to the farmers. Even though my sleep deprivation is rendering my literary musings more and more loquacious, neurotic (loquacious is loquacious), and borderline incoherent I'd like to leave y'all with a couple of blues songs that have been frequenting my ipod as of late.
       I've recently discovered the blues, and I feel like a whore that's just found religion. Oh my god, I love it. The blues that is. It's just got soul, unlike today's stuff and unlike anything else at all really. I just feel happy when I listen to it. Therapeutic really. Now, I don't pretend to know anymore about the blues than the next fellow, so I suppose we'll just learn together on this one. Anyhow, this first song is somewhat time appropriate (in the sense that I'll be waiting for a plane come wednesday. I leave for Buenos Aires on the 15th. That's tomorrow!!!!) and a real classic: Waiting for a Train by Jimmie Rodgers. A delightful song for a lazy sunday afternoon no matter what day of the week it might be, this song is sung by none other than the Father of Country Music. Born 1987, Jimmie Rodgers was one of the very first country superstars to grace Amurica, home of the diabeetis. Our next song is similar in that it's also bluesy but the similarities end there: A'hm a Nigger Man by Scatman Crothers is a catchy tune to be sure, but it's the song's emotionally charged content that is really interesting. The first thing that strikes you is the jarring song title, however the song lyrics are even more brash: "I'm the minstrel man, I'm the cleaning man, I'm the poor man, I'm the shoeshine man, I'm the nigger man...watch me dance...I got the devil in me, it's the man you see." The song comes from 1975 American animated film Coonskin, which follows the adventures of an african-american rabbit, fox and bear who climb to the top of the organized crime ladder in Harlem. As illustrated by the song, the film satirizes racism and black stereotypes. What's really neat though is the singer, Scatman Crothers. Born May 23, 1910, he's best known as that black guy who gets an axe to the stomach in Kubrick's The Shining. A real interesting man, here are few cool facts about him: at the age of 15 he played music in a speakeasy in his home town of Terre Haute, Indiana (he performed for Al Capone once), he was good friends with Jack Nicholson and he was the voice actor for Hong Kong Phooey if anyone remembers that cartoon... remember the dog who did kung fu, and his car thingy could transform into any kind of automobile, and his cat always saved him when... oh dear I'm rambling. 
       Good heavens. Now I'm really tired. Oh well. The next update will definitely be about the actual trip, don't worry. But, now I must see a man about a dog, and not in the modern sense but in the traditional sense. Look it up. Whatever. Goodnight darlings. Till next time... ~ Alec the Adventurer