Abroad

Hinchar, according to the Royal Spanish Academy’s dictionary, means to increase the volume of an object or body by filling it with air or some other thing. By scanning down to the fifth definition, though, one learns that in Argentina and Uruguay hinchar means to support a sports team with enthusiasm. Entusiasmo might be an understatement. Passion, fervor, frenzy—any word that brings to mind religious zeal tinged with bloodlust gets a little closer to the idea.

I like my fair share of soccer, but can’t claim fandom of any South American team in particular (besides the Uruguayan national selection, which stole my heart during the last World Cup). When I found out that the Buenos Aires institution River Plate was in danger of demotion to the second league after a deciding game with Belgrano, I wanted to cheer for the underdog—the only problem was, I didn’t know which team was worse off. Belgrano was in the second division and stood to rise, but River’s best players had been being sold off to Europe for so long that they were lean to the point of haggard. I decided to go see the game in a pizza place and make up my mind there.

A pizza deliveryman on rollerblades checks the score between runs

The pizzeria filled up as the game began, and my friend Ashley and I filled up on beer and delicious fugazzetta—a pizza consisting entirely of mozzarella, caramelized onion, and deep dish crust. We invited a kid who had only found standing room to join us. Belgrano scored their first goal and the restaurant’s atmosphere seemed to disappear as the River hinchada in the joint sucked in a deep breath and held it in with their disappointed rage. The kid at our table shyly asked us where we were from and who we rooted for. Ashley, who loves Buenos Aires deeply, immediately answered, “River.” I shrugged my shoulders. The kid showed us a photo on his cell phone of himself waving a Belgrano flag in a stadium. He grinned conspiratorially and put away the phone.

The game ended as most knew it would with River demoted and video of police officers hosing down fans who didn’t exit the stadium in a timely enough matter and, later in the evening, riots that left several people injured.

The next day I went for a wander and found the aftermath of the contest painted on the city walls. In Caminito, a touristic street in La Boca, home to River’s rival Boca Juniors, industrious fans had already left their tribute painted on a wall.

“The myth is broken…only the greatest remains.—Boca fans.”

Meanwhile, in a less artistic but more raw graffiti reaction, River fans threatened Belgrano with death.

“You don’t mess with River.”

“Belgrano you are dead.”

I gained a new appreciation for the dedication of the hinchas, and a slight touristic nostalgia for the days of the rivalry. Hopefully River will rise again, and give the policemen a reason to open up the fire hoses.

I love taking risks. I love to travel to new cities alone, explore, eat in holes-in-the-wall on the off chance I’ll discover a delicious secret. When it comes to the Hasbro “Game of Strategic Conquest”, though, I just can’t be bothered. I am happy with my continent, and really have no Genghis Khan-like impulse to conquer my friends’ territories. The fact that the game lasts for hours or even days does nothing to attract my interest. I usually end the game in a kamikaze move that most other players find so disturbingly enigmatic that it takes several turns for them to dare to kill me off. Since starting graduate school at Berkeley, though, I’ve found that most of my friends are gobsmacked by the game. They become obsessed with it, insisting on kissing, blowing or singing to the dice as they roll to attack neighboring lands. Maybe my love of travel, risky as it can be, and some strong kumbaya tendencies are exactly what keep me from fully enjoying the game.

I learned this past year that, surprising as it may seem, the USA has no monopoly on ludic-imperialist urges. In Buenos Aires I attended a play in the university district that formed part of a cycle of works that were all based on manuals—a gardening handbook, furniture assembly instructions, and the rulebook for a game I’d never hear of called T.E.G. The play I saw was entitled Los pactos (The pacts), and featured a group of characters with no name who suddenly found themselves in a mysterious, foggy realm where they had to roll a die, make pacts with one another, and engage in hostilities in order to pass on to the next, equally mysterious level. The play was entertaining even without the cultural context of having played the game. I began to suspect, however, that I did have some knowledge of T.E.G. when one character, the moderator of the game, named the other characters after territories: Alaska, Labrador, Polonia, and Terranova.  Could T.E.G. be my old, conquerous thorn in the side, Risk?

I resolved to solve the mystery and gain a souvenir after the play. I asked in a toyshop uncertainly: “¿Tienen un juego que se llama…T.E.G.?

The clerk answered immediately and in rapid fire: “Plan Táctico y Estratégico de la Guerra” (Tactical and Strategic War Plan) and pointed to the top shelf of a wall full of games. His assistant scaled a ladder and showed me T.E.G., T.E.G. La revancha (The Revenge), T.E.G. de los Negocios (Business T.E.G.), and T.E.G.: Independencia (Independence). I went with the original, and looked over the box suspiciously. It cost a hefty $160 Argentine—almost $40 USD. This for a game that might very well be a carbon copy of one I already own.

I asked the assistant if he knew of a game called Risk. He hesitated, looked at his boss, and said he might have heard of it. I asked him if it was the same game and he answered, in a beautifully Argentine evasion: “Tengo entendido que tienen sus diferencias.” (From what I understand, they have their differences.)

I bought the game, whose cardboard box promises an “exciting bellic action in which logic, intelligence, and chance intervene” and which has been delighting Argentines since the 1970s (Given the belliferous government that ruled the country during that decade, these liner notes take on a particularly ominous feel). I even had them wrap it as a gift for my Risk-loving husband. We opened it and scoured the rules for anything that might distinguish it from the game of world conquest we know and love (or love to hate). It turned out that this version (I don’t know which came first, and prefer to leave it as a chicken-and-egg provocative mystery) has smoothed out all the kinks that make Risk so, well, risky. How many little brothers have slammed a fist on the board in anger, scattering cannons and cards? How many cousins have quit just when it was getting good after their pact between Brazil and North Africa is betrayed by an evil aunt? In T.E.G., the rules specifically state that pacts must be declared openly and respected. (Another fun difference is the separation of Risk’s monolithic Argentina into two territories: Argentina and Chile.) What is the fun in that? Perhaps it is my cynical approach to the game in which I play for a quick end to the world that appreciates Risk’s anger-inducing rulebook, but I appreciate the bellicose eruptions of familial rivalry that T.E.G. tries to smooth over.

Being not just a stranger, but also a foreigner, puts one in an extra-vulnerable position. When it is obvious you don’t know the language, the bus route, or how much a beer should cost, it is easy to be taken advantage of by opportunists.  However, that vulnerability seems to be compensated for by extra support from do-gooders who would, if dealing with their compatriots, be mistaken for meddlers. An example: if, in my native Oklahoma, I were to see a grown man dressed in OU football gear from head to toe grabbing a bottle of KC Masterpiece off the shelf at the grocery store I would silently judge him, but I would not point out the error of his ways. If, however, in place of the Okie, I were to spy a family of Australians looking over the barbecue sauce options I wouldn’t hesitate to point out to them that Head Country sauce, the local pride, beats Texas sauce and the national brands any day.

In Buenos Aires this past June I found myself in the position of foreigner-on-aisle-three. A friend from Berkeley and I had filled our supermarket cart with alfajores (delectable chocolate-covered caramel cookie sandwiches), pastas, provolone and a huge steak. We decided to pick up some chimichurri to top the meat, and were overwhelmed by bottled options and packets of spices. As we discussed our choices in English, we had almost decided on a bottle of the prepared sauce. An Argentine standing near the spaghetti sauce couldn’t help himself and butted in.

“Please, you should get the dried ones in these packets. It is much, much better. Much. Remember to soak the herbs first, then add olive oil.”

He held a blue spice packet out to us, and watched to make sure we put the bottle down. I picked up six more packets—they would make perfectly packable souvenirs. Our condiment counselor nodded in approval then walked away, his work done.

Later that week, distracted by my rush to buy tickets to a play, I left my debit card in the ATM. Before I even realized it I’d covered three blocks speed-walking. At first I ignored the persistent che, che, che, che that seemed to be following me. I was in a university neighborhood and the streets were packed with students, so I brushed the sound off as a good example of just how common the word is in porteña conversations. When I felt a hand on my shoulder to go along with the che-ing, though, I knew it was for me. A young man was waving my bright orange debit card and, without a word, handed it to me. In my surprise and gratitude my Muchas gracias came out thick and gringo-esque–the R was guttural, and my vowels were all out of whack. The accent confirming my foreignness, he merely pointed to his eye with one finger: ojo, watch out. He stretched a fatherly, stern look across his eighteen-year-old face and I, duly chastised, repeated my appreciation. With that he melted back into the crowd, headed back toward the bank.

***

My travel MO is, in general, to try my best not to stick out. In some locales this is easier than others. In the places where I just can’t seem to pull it off, though, the very differences that put me past stranger and into foreigner territory allow for some welcome meddling. Sometimes, the less you fit in, the more some strangers are willing to offer up some kindness.

This summer, I did what any Comparative Literature student looking to improve language skills and develop ideas about economic metaphors in 16th-century literature would do: I worked on a farm in France.

It made sense at the time. I’m interested in ecocriticism, and in the parallels between agricultural and literary production, so I thought I should take a break from the ivory tower and get my hands dirty. Also, I had spent last summer miserably memorizing Greek verb forms and was looking for something very, very different. World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, with sites in over 30 countries, seemed like it would provide just that. Spending a few weeks working outdoors in the French countryside, in exchange for food and housing, sounded like an ideal way to work on my French while taking a more hands-on approach to my theoretical interest in manual labor.

So I signed up at wwoof.fr, paid the 15-euro fee, and contacted farms whose descriptions didn’t scare me (“reconnecting with our life force” and build-your-own yurt operations were out). I got encouraging replies from two farms in the southeast of France, one a small vegetable farm and another specializing in “red fruits.” My department thought it was just adorable that I wanted to harvest organic currants all summer, but gently suggested I also do something normal, like take a refresher language course, which I duly did. When I arrived on the first farm, freshly cultured from Paris, I was fed some leftover ratatouille, escorted to a trailer with no running water or electricity and a broken floor, and told (nicely) that breakfast was at 5:30; work commenced at 6.

I usually worked 6-8 hours a day (more than on most WWOOF sites) helping farmers Xavier and Elisabeth harvest zucchini or potatoes or rhubarb, reweave lapsed tomato vines around their stakes, and weigh crates of vegetables for the biweekly markets and AMAP (the French equivalent of a CSA, or Community Supported Agriculture). At noon (or one, or two, depending on how long we could stand the heat in the greenhouses), I would retreat inside to help Margo, a Belgian wwoofeuse, prepare lunch (usually some variant on ratatouille). In the afternoon I was free to bicycle past fields of sunflowers to bathe in a river, repair to the nearby town’s bar to drink Belgian beer with Margo, or tackle my summer reading list. My books mostly gathered dust, but Shakespeare and Montaigne managed to preserve their dignity stacked next to my bug spray, flashlight, and spray-bottle of alcohol (for disinfecting purposes!). Whenever I could, I profited from the unlimited access to bursting-ripe figs growing wild on the edge of the property, though I did have to compete with some fructose-fiending wasps.

After three weeks I took a train through fields of lavender (I think? I slept the whole way) to the next farm, also run by a young couple, Ludovic and Mayi. Besides the advertised red fruits were a summer stew’s array of vegetables, orchards of plush peaches and tiny yellow plums, and a coop of chickens who laid those incredible saffron-yolked eggs everyone in Berkeley who raises chickens talks about. Work schedules, tasks, and accommodations vary greatly at WWOOF farms; here I was housed in Ludo and Mayi’s apartment in town, a 30-minute walk through rolling hills from the farm, and my workday was generally from 9 to 4. In the mornings I would make batches of currant, strawberry, or plum jam, trying to avoid disaster transferring the boiling liquid from the medieval wood-burning cauldron into scathing sterilized glass jars. I would also prepare lunch, which always featured farm-fresh produce but sometimes included items of less certain provenance, like nuggets of frozen breaded fish. (Not all organic farmers, I found out, have the time, money, or inclination to eat all local and organic, all the time.) Afternoons I would usually weed, or plant beans and think pastoral thoughts until a whiff of exhaust from the tractor or Ludo’s father’s thick provincial bark rudely jolted me from my Thoreauvian idyll.

Did my French improve? Well, I learned a lot of words for weeds, and that the offshoots of tomato plants who greedily leech the main stem’s nutrients are called, aptly, gourmands. At the first farm, I was a willing audience for Elisabeth’s Parisian parents, who arrived toting smelly cheeses (he in a beret, she in a colorful scarf), delivered frequent homages to le pain, le vin, et le fromage, and cheerfully embodied every other French stereotype I could hope for. The next farm was a much bigger operation, and my main interlocutors were seasonal workers from Romania, whose French was limited to words like “work,” “meat,” “many kilos,” and the universal “kaputt!!“, and the farmers’ son Asmar, age two, who responded to most attempts at conversation by hurling whatever overripe fruit was in reach. Out of habit, I guess, Ludo’s parents – who had bequeathed the farm to Ludo years ago, but stuck around to help out and complain about how silly all the new organic stuff was – spoke to me in a pidgin French that made me feel more like a two-year-old than a foreigner. On the plus side, I was frequently treated to pithy, enthusiastic pronouncements like “France: a lot of cycling, not a lot of work!!!” and (passing a herd of cows grazing pacifically) “In your country, cows eat corn all year! America!!!!!”

Did I learn a lot about farming? Well, I learned a lot about weeds, because growing food without the conventional chemical shortcuts is (surprise) hard work. Working on the real, solid earth was a welcome change from the numinous spaces of texts, but it wasn’t always easy to find sure footing; the honest backbreaking labor I was hoping for would get interrupted by logistical problems, the whims of the weather, and mechanical glitches (“tracteur kaputt!!”). As Berkeley English Professor Anne-Lise François has suggested, the rhythms of agricultural labor can end up resembling an academic calendar: a lot of doing nothing (or what looks like it) before cramming for a final exam or harvest, or strategic waiting foiled by an unexpected rainstorm.

Most illuminating were the differences I could glean in organic food production (and consumption) in France and the U.S. The organic movement seemed much more, well, organic in France, less of a marketing gimmick than a real (herbicide-free) grassroots effort to make the national food system better. As any visit to the supermarché (or its amped-up cousin, the hypermarché) will testify, over-processed foods certainly exist in France; I encountered such minor outrages as microwaveable éclairs and madeleines pumped with enough preservatives to outlast any search for lost time. But Big Food, that evil alimentary-industrial complex Berkeley has trained me to malign, just isn’t as big in France, maybe because nothing is as big in France as it is here. And of course, cultural attitudes towards food tend to be different. Organic farmers from inland California report that locals aren’t interested enough in fresh vegetables to subscribe to a CSA; in France, people in rural areas have too many fresh vegetables in their own gardens to subscribe to an AMAP.

So if you are interested in food policy, georgic poetry, the economics of agriculture, or the economics of your limited summer funding, I recommend checking out wwoof.org for information on how to work and stay for free all around the U.S. and abroad. The nominal registration fee will allow you to read descriptions and contact farms, some of which accept WWOOFers for as little as a few days. And there’s nothing like a brief stay at a farm to help you appreciate the fact that in graduate school – low pay, limited job prospects, and overloaded schedules notwithstanding – we’re only metaphorically in the weeds.