One of the few drawbacks to my charmed life here is that, as a WWOOFer, my fellow volunteers and companions are uniformly English-speaking foreigners like me. I’ve had great luck and met some wonderful (mostly) girls since I’ve been here, but what’s been missing from the equation is the Argentine element. We spend a lot of time with Cynthia and her family, and speak Spanish during the time we’re together, but for the rest of the time, English dominates. I haven’t minded this too much, as I feel like my Spanish has improved a ton since I arrived in Argentina, and I feel really good about my fluency at this point, but I do feel like I’ve learned more Cynthia-isms than Argentine “modismos” or slang.
Until now. Two weeks ago, Federico arrived. I was the only volunteer here for a few days, and took advantage of the opportunity to get in some solo weaving and bread-making time, and wasn’t expecting anyone new until at least the following Monday. “A boy from Buenos Aires called last night, and he’s coming today at midday,” Cynthia told me Friday morning, as we were feeding the animals and cleaning the barn. She was excited about having an Argentine volunteer for the first time. A few days later, Maria Luz, another “Portena” or Buenos Aires resident, arrived, and my immersion deepened even further. “We’re going to Argentinize you, Sarita,“ Cynthia told me.
For the first time since I’d been here, I was the only gringa around. Daily life has changed in subtle ways, and I’ve realized how comfortable I was within my little cocoon of extranjeras. Instead of the communal, ubiquitous pot of oatmeal for breakfast each morning, I make my own portion with my black tea and milk, while Fede and Maria Luz eat their bread and pass mate (mah-tay). The never-ending list of possible empanada fillings that had been a constant topic of conversation among my fellow gringas since I arrived back in November petered out,. And for the first time in months, I felt like my Spanish got worse.
Spending time with two Argentine young people, I realized, is different than spending time with Cynthia. Cynthia is used to speaking to non-native speakers with various levels of Spanish proficiency; she speaks slowly, and with a minimum of slang. Maria Luz and Fede do not. I’ve found myself asking, “Que significa?” or “Que quiere decir…?” not once a day, as I had been previously, but nearly in every conversation. It’s been challenging, being thrust into this state of immersion. I’m more tentative in my speech, often following a sentence with a self-conscious, “Would you say it like that?” It’s made me feel much farther from the fluency I’ve been working towards, and at times, it’s brought up a frustration I recall clearly from my semester abroad in Chile, but which I thought I’d passed at this point.
Taking a step back, I know that all of these feelings of inadequacy are signs of growth. My Spanish has not gotten worse, it’s just that, for the first time since my first weeks in Argentina, I’m learning a lot each day. In addition, it’s made me realize just how foreign I am, and just how tight was the cocoon I had been living in, in the formerly American-dominated Casita. Fede and Maria Luz have brought me down to earth from my food-obsessed La-la Land. Fede’s vege-anarchist philosophizing includes plans to travel for three to five years, working his way around organic farms in exchange for food and lodging, and learning first-hand, while also studying from the impressive library of books he’s carting around. His hope is to eventually teach campesinos how to produce their food sustainably and self-sufficiently. Meanwhile, he entertains the rest of us with inventive and no-holds-barred culinary creations, heavily based in rice, polenta, lentils, and whatever happens to be in the Casita (hot chocolate polenta?) and random vulgar exclamations using the few English words he knows. Maria Luz, on the other hand, is using the last weeks of summer vacation from her university studies in Biochemistry to be here and learn about gardening and cheese making. Having gone to a bilingual school her whole life, her English is impeccable, but she does her best not to use it, for our sake (a week ago, an American friend I met in Buenos Aires in November arrived, so the balance has shifted a bit).
Walking back to the Casita from Cynthia’s the other evening, I could smell something delicious in the works as I approached. I walked in to find Fede frying up ‘tortas fritas,’ a typical Argentine snack, and Maria Luz preparing to make a tarta de verduras for dinner. I had a mate in my hand even before I could sit down. Six months into my life here, I'm finally starting to become un poco Argentine.
