Okay, I know I haven’t updated since May, but never fear–I will be back. Just wait three more weeks until the semester is over, and then I’ll be free! Grad school has really been kicking me in the behind, so yeah, I barely even have time to hang out or even sleep. I promise I’ll be back. Besides, I really miss updating this thing, and I miss my dearest fans.
Sincerely,
Hasan
PS - If you ever see really ridiculous posts, they were written by my brother. Just ignore them.
Before I continue with the long overdue posts of “Reflections of My Journey,” I thought I’d take a moment to update y’all with what’s been going on in my life.
The past semester was my last one as an undergrad, and it flew by pretty quickly. While I only needed three more classes to graduate, I took four. One of them in particular caused me so much pain: intermediate social statistics. Although I knew it would be difficult after attending the first class, I didn’t think it would be that hard. I passed and got a decent grade, but do you have any idea how much work it took me to get that? No, you don’t. Hardest class I’ve ever taken.
Since I was in Argentina from February to December 2007, I spent much of my semester trying to get over the fact I was no longer in South America. I had such an amazing experience that words cannot describe, and I was honestly disappointed to be back on campus. I mean, I love being there, but it no longer seemed as big or exciting as it used to. When you live in a massive city like Buenos Aires, everything seems so small in comparison. I was always out and about, but on campus, I’m mostly in the library studying.
I tried to avoid talking about Argentina unnecessarily with my friends, but it always came up. How could I avoid it? I spent almost a year of my life there. I probably annoyed people with my Argentina stories. As much as it is true, I didn’t want give the impression that I had all these amazing experiences while they were just stuck in the Midwest taking classes or doing internships in some boring office. And it sucks that only people that have been to Argentina would truly understand my stories.
Cambio de tema.
I graduated from college almost three weeks ago! Yes, thank you. Fortunately, I was able to graduate in four years. Where did the time ago? I still remember the day I moved into my dorm back in August 2004, excited about moving on to the next phase of my life. If I could go back and redo my undergrad years (while, of course, avoiding the mistakes I made), I’d do it in a heartbeat.
So what lies ahead of me? Grad school. I’ll be at the same university, pursuing a master’s degree. Ultimately, I would like to get a doctorate in either sociology or anthropology. Academia is the way to go, yo.
That’s it for now, folks. Insha’Allah I’ll finish summarizing my South American journey within the next few days.
Oh, and I leave you with this:
I remember seeing this back when I was in elementary school. Thank you, YouTube, for helping me find videos I saw back in the day.
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.
Today at around 1 p.m. a police officer shot a man to death. According to La Nación, the guy that was killed robbed a fabrics store with a gun and attempted to flee by motorcycle. He died on the spot. His accomplice, on the other hand, was hit by the same bullet and survived and was taken to the hospital.
This happened less than a hundred meters away from my apartment building.
I didn’t hear any shots, but my host mom told me what had occurred after she returned from grocery shopping.
After watching the news coverage of the event, I was tempted to walk to the scene to see the hullabaloo and take pictures. I decided against that because I thought that was pretty low of me to even think of looking for the covered body so that I could have some interesting visuals for this post.
More than eight hours later, the streets are unblocked, and everything is back to normal.
While I’m still on the topic of death, a young man in his late 20s that lived next door passed away a few days ago after a long bout of testicular cancer. I never saw him, but my host mom told me how he lost 40 kilos over the past year and a half due to his illness and suffered greatly.
Countdown: three weeks. I can’t believe my time en mi querida Argentina is almost over. I’m gonna miss the delicious bland food, the mullets, the Italian-inflected Spanish, the numerous tiny shops, and the beautiful women (in case you didn’t know, Buenos Aires has a significantly higher percentage of attractive people than any city I’ve been to in the US–this is a topic for another post).
Once Friday hits, Insha’Allah, I’ll be totally done with my exams and papers for the semester. And after that? Grad school applications and hopefully a trip down to the Dirty South, which in this case means southern Argentina.
How weird is it to run into a pair of Pakistani Americans from California when waiting in line at an ice cream shop in Buenos Aires with another desi from the US? It’s so odd to run into your “own kind” in such a random place. I mean, I see plenty of white Americans around here, but I’m totally not used to meeting other brown people with American accents in Argentina. Ah, the joys of living in the South Asian diaspora.
I’m trying to study for this big exam I have tomorrow, but I can’t get “Beautiful Girls” by Sean Kingston out of my head. I hear it everywhere in Buenos Aires; I’m surprised I have yet to hear someone’s cell phone go off during jummah prayers with that song.
I’d like to hear Argentine songs and not American ones once in a while.
My eyes are tired.
Three weeks and four days left before I return to Illinois, home of Barack Obama, Chicago, and the Springfield Race Riot of 1908.
Argentina, te voy a extrañar. (Argentina, I’m gonna miss you.)
Last night, I went to an American-style Thanksgiving gathering that consisted of five Americans, a Mexican, a Colombian, an Argentine, and delicious food. Yes, I celebrated Thanksgiving in Buenos Aires because that’s what real Americans do. And I’m an American, damn it.
We ate a whole chicken, corn, stuffing, mashed potatoes, chicken tikka masala wings (prepared by Rashmee), bread, and pound cake. Unfortunately, there was a not a turkey in sight; we substituted it with chicken because there was no way a whole turkey could fit into the oven. The thought of eating chicken instead of turkey on Thanksgiving is blasphemous and almost haram, but we had no other choice. It was good, though. It’s the thought that counts.
We all had to draw Thanksgiving pictures like we did back in kindergarten. I traced my left hand and turned the outline into a turkey. A ver:
I wanna show it to my mommy when I get back home.
Good people, good times, and most importantly, chicken tikka masala wings.
My friend Dan, an American studying in Buenos Aires, accidentally sent this e-mail yesterday to our public policy teaching assistant, who teaches the discussion section of the course:
Hey,
Ok, so I’m guessing we’re presenting on Thursday, so we need to get prepared. I***** hasn’t replied to my e-mail where I asked her when we’re presenting (I’ve sent her a total of three e-mails this semester, and she has yet to answer one). Can you e-mail her to confirm?
The Huntington reading is 38 pages long. I suggest we split it up into two parts: I’ll do 92-111, and you do 111-30 (or vice-versa, if you want). Both of us should definitely read everything, but this is just that so one of us can focus on a particular section.
Let’s meet Wednesday afternoon to get everything together. Does that work for you?
- Hasan
PS - Ugh, and we have that project. We definitely have to get started next weekend. Can you e-mail and ask her if our topic is okay and if we can write the paper in English? Explain to her that all the sources are in English and that we’re really busy and writing in English would be much easier for us. I would write to her, but she never responds.
He did what I asked and e-mailed the teacher with my questions. The thing is, he replied to my e-mail to contact her while BCCing it to me and forgot to delete what I said! Crap. You know how when you reply to e-mails it shows the past messages? We don’t know if she saw my comments about how she never responds to my e-mails and my lack of desire to do the project (”Ugh, and we have that project”). Maybe we’ll find out tomorrow in class.
The teacher responded to Dan’s e-mail in less than twenty minutes (and why did she not answer mine, even though I sent it six days ago?) and answered our questions: yes, we are presenting the Samuel P. Huntington reading tomorrow, and yes, we can write our paper in English. However, she CCed the e-mail to the twenty-four people in the class (wait, I thought there were only twenty—maybe the others dropped but still remain on the mailing list), which means everyone could have read it. And everyone, including the teacher, knows English, so they surely have the ability to read my words.
Oh well. Dan, the other two Americans in our class, and I had a good laugh over the fiasco over lunch today. It could be worse. All I said was that the teacher never responds to my e-mails. Nothing bad. At least I didn’t call her a bitch or anything.
We couldn’t figure out why she responded to our e-mail by sending it to the entire class when it doesn’t pertain to them. We theorized that she wanted to prove to everyone that she does indeed respond to e-mails.
