After finishing my exams, my research paper, and a grad school application, I decided to take a solo trip to Uruguay to relax and know a new place. I left for this tiny country of 3.3 million people Sunday morning by Buquebus, a company that transports passengers from Buenos Aires by boat, and arrived in Montevideo, the capital and largest city, three hours later.
I spent the first day exploring the areas closest to my hotel and checking out the Feria de Tristán Narvaja (Tristán Narvaja Fair), a huge street market held every Sunday where they sell everything from live turkeys to Nintendo 64 consoles and games. I felt bad for the birds kept in tiny cages. That just ain’t right.
The next day I took a guided tour to Punta del Este, a resort town located about 140 km east of Montevideo. I almost missed the tour because I had fallen asleep while watching TV the night before, so I didn’t set my alarm. The tour guide called my room at 8:30 a.m., and I told her I wasn’t going because I didn’t think fifteen minutes was enough time to get ready. After hanging up and thinking for a minute, I changed my mind because there was no way I was gonna miss the opportunity of seeing the famous Punta del Este everyone talks about in Buenos Aires. Basically, I just brushed my teeth and did wudu and washed my hair. I normally don’t go out without showering, so I felt a bit dirty. If she hadn’t called, I would’ve surely missed the tour.
The tour guide asked me if I was Brazilian when we were on the phone. If I got a peso for every time somebody asked me that, I’d be a very rich man. My hotel was filled with Brazilians, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t sound like them…
Anyway, Punta del Este is super expensive. It was essentially made as a beach playground for Argentina’s rich. I spent $20 for lunch, something I rarely, rarely do in this part of the world.
Oh, after spending a long day exploring Montevideo on Tuesday, I got robbed by a group of four boys on the bank of the Río de la Plata. I was tired and wanted to relax for a bit by watching the waves from the estuary before leaving for Buenos Aires that night. I picked a nice, quiet area underneath a palm tree, far away from other people and the highway. Because of its isolation, I thought about the risk of sitting there, but I did it anyway. After eating an alfajor and taking several pictures of myself, I saw a group of boys that appeared to be around 15 or 16 years old walk in my direction. A few minutes later, they sat around me and began to ask me questions. They started off by asking me if I wanted a smoke. After declining, they asked where I was from. I lied and said Bangladesh; if I had said the US, they probably would’ve thought I was loaded with cash. I figured they had never heard of Bangladesh, so I told them it was by India–one of the boys asked me if I was meditating. One of them asked me if I worked, and I told him I study but teach English part time. They acted like they wanted to practice speaking English with me. A few seconds later, one of them says this to me: “Listen to me, negro (pronounced nay-gro; usually refers to those of black African descent, but the word is often used in Argentina and Uruguay to refer to all darker skinned people). ¿Sabés que es un nueve milímetro? (Do you know what a nine millimeter is?)” At that point, I knew they wanted to rob me. I told them they could have everything, but they “just” took my camera, cell phone, and about $100 in US dollars and Argentine and Uruguayan pesos. One of the kids wanted my backpack, but his buddy told him not to take it. Luckily, they didn’t take my passport and debit card. If they had, I would’ve been screwed. Before leaving, they told me not to turn around because they said their friends were waiting in the distance and would shoot me if I did. I knew it was BS, but I didn’t want to take a risk. I sat there for half an hour more and didn’t turn around.
I feel like partying like it’s 1985 when I hear “Som de Preto” (I think it roughly means “The Black Man Sound” in Portuguese) by Brazilian rap group Amilckar E Chocolate. Just watch the video, and you’ll know what I’m talking about:
I really have no clue what they’re saying, but the beat is pretty damn infectious. The song reminds me of the “put your hands in the air/and wave ‘em like you just don’t care” days of American rap back in the late ’70s and early ’80s.
Except this song came out only within the past few years.
Last Friday had to have been one of the coolest and most random days I’ve had in my time abroad.
After jummah, I met a young Bangladeshi American couple from New Jersey that was vacationing in Buenos Aires. It’s random enough to meet Bangladeshis, much less Bangladeshi Americans, in this city, as I only know one other bangladeshí yanqui besides me.
My two Muslim American friends that are studying here and I took them out. I felt like I was in some weird Islamoamerican version of Argentina because I’m not exactly accustomed to being around four other Americans that practice my religion down here.
That night, all but one of us ate dinner at a cheap, shabby hotel filled with Bangladeshi men. The hotel, which is located just about ten blocks away from where I live, is probably not the type of hotel you’re thinking of. Basically, it’s a combination of an apartment building and a hotel, where each unit just has one room, and everyone shares a bathroom. A lot of people that can’t afford to live in real apartments live in places like that for extended amounts of time.
While I was there, I saw about five of the who-knows-how-many Bangladeshis that live there, but just two of them did most of the cooking. The food was delicious. They prepared fried rice, chicken, beef, and eggs, all mixed together. There was even achar, or pickled mango. You Bengalis know what I’m talking about! It was great to eat a full Bengali meal made by authentic Bengalis actually from Bangladesh after such a long time away from home. I can’t even begin to describe their hospitality.
The sheikh that gave the khutbah at the masjid that day was at the hotel as well. Because I had seen him dressed in a dishdasha and a kuffiyeh, I was taken aback to see him in “normal” clothes. Plus, he spoke calmly in Spanish and Urdu and didn’t speak Arabic in a loud voice like he had at jummah. He was actually a pretty down to earth guy. Originally from the city of Lucknow in northcentral India, he studied Islam in Saudi Arabia for fifteen years. At some point, the Saudi government, I think, sent him to Ciudad del Este, Paraguay ten years ago to serve the large Muslim community there. He speaks Urdu, Arabic, Spanish, and Portuguese fluently and some English. We talked to each other en castellano because that was the only language we had in common. Yeah, I never thought I would be talking to an Indian sheikh in Spanish.
I hope to travel throughout Latin America one day to meet and document the numerous Muslim communities in the region. Until I figure out how and when I’ll undertake my journey, Argentina will have to do. Hey, I don’t exactly have thousands of dollars laying around.
Maybe I’ll be the Muslim Che Guevara and ride a motorcycle from country to country.
When I went to Colonia, Uruguay on August 15, I walked passed a restaurant and noticed a curious little object. I’m pretty sure there would be massive protests and CNN coverage if a store in the US put this out front. Yeah, it was okay in 1927, but now? I don’t think so.
I wonder how Uruguay’s small yet visible black population would handle this.
Yesterday I hung out with a few Argentine Muslims. The Centro Cultural Islámico Rey Fahd served lunch and hosted a day of soccer, pool, and Ping-Pong. I heard about it at jummah, and I thought I’d check it out to meet some locals.
I met a bunch of people, mostly Argentine converts. Typically, our conversations began with questions about where I’m from, my ethnic origins, and discrimination against American Muslims. They seemed impressed that I could speak Spanish. I was told that I speak it well a few times, but I don’t know if they were just saying that to be nice. I think I speak it well until I don’t know how to say something, which happens a lot.
As I mentioned in my post about my first visit to the masjid, the Muslim community seems very small. There were only about thirty people at this massive masjid. According to a few sources, there over half a million Argentines of Muslim ancestry, but few of them identify as Muslims or practice. Sadly, Islam mostly died out with the first Arab Muslim immigrants. There was a large wave of Arab immigration from the Ottoman Empire before World War I. Although most of these immigrants were Christians (from Lebanon and Syria), there were many Muslims as well. Yet, Islam didn’t last long. A convert I met said that they didn’t have the education or time to preserve their Islamic identity. ¡Qué lástima!
As a side note, Arabs were the third largest immigrant group in Argentina after Italians and Spaniards. I bet you didn’t know that.
The Muslim presence in Latin America is quite intriguing. Although it’s not nearly as large and vibrant as the North American Muslim community, it’s still alive and well. North American Muslims should take the time and effort to learn about their southern neighbors, especially considering most of us don’t even know there are Muslims here. Before I decided to study abroad, I have to admit that I was pretty ignorant about Latin American Muslims too. Heck, I didn’t even know there was an America outside the real America.
On a totally different topic, I ate about a quarter pound of fried cheese for lunch on Saturday. Disgusting. Oh, the joys of living in a new country and not knowing for sure what you order.
