Where Whales Smile and Seals Strut: A Patagonian Mission to Puerto Madryn

After an epic trip to Bariloche, our thirst for patagonian adventure could not be quenched. Once again, the compass pointed south: Léa, Sofi and I would venture eight hours down the Atlantic Coast, to Puerto Madryn, Chubut. The trip would be short, (just two days), but it would surely be epic. Our objective was clear: we were after whales.

It would not be a proper blog entry without a bus fiasco to impart, and this chapter of my Argentine adventure is no exception. Our bus was running late, and anxious to embark on the journey, I asked the man at the counter how long of a delay to expect. '20 minutos,' he replied, tersely. After 30 minutes, and still no sign of the bus, I returned to the counter, and making my best effort not to be annoying, asked again. '20 minutos.' This bi-hourly, déjà vu-inducing exchange repeated for about three hours, until our bus finally arrived. Señor 20 Minutos however, turned out to be the least of our problems...

1:37 a.m.: Approximately 2.5 hours after ETD

Little did I know that I was soon to embark on what we would later dub the 'Ride of Death.' This ride however, was no Splash Mountain. About 30 minutes into the trip, the bus began to shake. Perhaps, I thought, half-asleep and delirious, this vigorous trembling is normal. Not so. Soon, the bus came to a halt. Periodical stops are not uncommon, and so again, I thought little of it. But when I peered out the window, I discovered that we were not, as I had presumed, at a gas station or a bus stop. Rather, we were inside a very dark, very sketchy garage.

The situation inside the garage did not improve. Although the bus was stationary, it continued to shake furiously, up and down, side to side. I looked behind me at the other passengers for confirmation that something was terribly amiss, and was shocked by what I saw. While Léa, Sofi and I frantically peered out the window, trying to figure out why in the world we were shaking inside a random garage, and equally perplexing, why no one was making an announcement about it on the intercom, the other passengers read quietly or dozed peacefully in their seats. Had they been tranquilized by the complementary snack we had not yet eaten? Was there some unspoken Argentine understanding that we foreigners were not in on?

Before these questions could ever be answered, we left the garage of doom. Apparently the problem had been fixed. Our peace however, was short-lived. About five minutes later the bus began to shake and jerk. To add to the excitement, we were now moving at tilt, the passengers to my left at a distressingly lower level than my own. 'No estoy tranquila,' Léa whispered, ominously. 'Nos vamos a morir?', I asked, only somewhat joking.

Five sketchy garage-stops and 14 hours later, we arrived in Puerto Madryn, 6 hours behind schedule, but happy to be alive. We'd arrived too late for any excursion, and so we headed straight to my friend and fellow Fulbrighter Melissa's apartment. She was generous enough to host the three of us and show us around Puerto Madryn.

The following day also happened to be our last day, and so we had to make it count. Martín, our excursion guide, picked us up in a truck at Melissa's place, and we set off for Punta Ninfas (Nymphs' Point), the home to an impressive colony of elephant seals. Martín had brought along mate for the trip, and I eagerly offered to 'cebar' (serve).

As it turned out, pouring near-boiling water into a small yerba-filled wooden cup (mate), and passing it around while speeding down an unpaved dirt road in not nearly as easy as Argentines make it look. Most of the water and the yerba mate ended up on my clothes and on the floor, and by the time we arrived at Punta Ninfas, I appeared to have jumped in a pool and rolled in loose-leaf tea. Luckily, I had no one I to impress but the elephant seals...

Cebadora in training

Bumpy road = major mate spillage

'Why is it called Punta Ninfas," I asked Martín, inquisitively. Our guide stared pensively ahead, scratched his chin, and launched into the grand tale of Charles Darwin and his epic travels on the Beagle. Darwin, he recounted dramatically, spotted the elephant seals from afar on his ship, and claimed to have seen beautiful nymphs, lounging lazily on the shore. I later googled this explanation, and found not a single reference to Charles Darwin in relation to Punta Ninfas. Somewhat deceptive on Martín's part, but I give him props for creativity.

Martín, el Gran Chamuyero, leading the way to the beach

Perhaps Martín had invented the Darwinian nymph tale, but I could not deny that the female elephant seals we found at Punta Ninfas (the males had not yet arrived), indeed seemed to perceive themselves as divine nymph goddesses. I felt like a photographer on 'America's Next Top Model' as I snapped pictures of these colossal creatures of the deep. Sure they smelled like rotting carp. And yes, the ground shook with the roaring force of their not-so-femenine barks. These ladies though, sure knew how to strike a pose.

Léa and I sensed our inferiority along side the elephant seal goddesses 

As we walked along the shore, Martín made a miraculous find: a whale's tooth! In reality, whales don't have teeth, but rather bristle-like baleen which filters out krill and other tasty whale morsels, and (fun fact!) is made of the same substance as human fingernails. Name aside, I had to have this cetacean treasure. 'Could I please have the whale tooth?', I asked Martín, trying not to sound too excited. (In truth, I longed deeply for the tooth, and could hardly contain my excitement.) Martín handed over the whale chomper, and I clutched it happily.

In awe of my prize

Next stop: el Doradillo. Time to spot some whales! On the drive to el Doradillo, Léa and Sofi snoozed in the back seat, and once I got bored of taking embarrassing sleeping pictures of my two compañeras, I chatted with Martín. As it turned out, Martín knew very little about Puerto Madryn's flora and fauna. On the other hand, our guide was quite knowledgeable about soccer, and discussed in great detail, and at great length, his favorite team, describing everything from their tactical strategy to the team's origin and history. Meanwhile, I practiced my mate-serving technique as Martín ranted passionately for the two hours it took to arrive at el Doradillo.

At el Doradillo we encountered winds so strong we could hardly stand upright. Nevertheless, we got out of the truck at various points along the beach, fiercely searching the waters for la ballena franca austral, or, the southern right whale. They were no where to be found. Perhaps, we considered sadly, the siesta practiced by many Argentines is a whale tradition as well.

No whales in sight... Un garronazo!

Just when we had given up hope, seemingly defeated in our whale mission, I heard a faraway call: "Ballenas!" And there they were. The southern right whales. We frolicked joyfully down the beach, chasing after the whales, which, not unlike the elephant seals, also seemed to be putting on a bit of a show. The whales swam unbelievably close to the shore, periodically raising their callus-encrusted heads, revealing their sleek, endless bodies, amiably waving their glorious tails. They were massive. They were totally awesome.

Oh hey whale-watchers!

After our spectacular whale sighting, we headed back to Puerto Madryn, very satisfied and smiling broadly. Just as we got back to Melissa's apartment however, I stopped in my tracks, horrified. I had left my beloved souvenir behind in the truck. My whale tooth. Desperate, I called the agency and explained the grave situation to Juan, the man working at the office. 'What did you leave, señorita," he asked. After a thoughtful pause, I replied, "Well, um...a whale tooth actually."

"I'm not sure what to tell you, because whale's don't have teeth," Juan replied evenly, though clearly attempting to mask the fact that he thought I was insane. Once I explained that yes, I knew that it was not actually a whale tooth, he assured me that Martín would stop by the apartment and bring me my tooth. Joya.

The only problem was that we were leaving in 2 hours. I waited, and waited. No Martín. I called back to the office. "If Martín doesn't make it before you leave, he'll meet you at the bus station," said Juan, i.e. Gran Chamuyero #2. We left for the bus station. I called the office. No answer. At the bus station, I waited hopefully for Martín to appear, imagining our guide sprinting down the terminal, a Journey song playing dramatically in the background, whale tooth in hand. I had wished in vain. Martín never came.

On the bus ride home, I was devastated, but tried to think about the situation rationally. How did I know that Martín, who knew close to nothing about wildlife in Puerto Madryn, had not also lied about the whale tooth? Maybe, I considered, my treasure was just a piece of dried bark that looked curiously like a whale tooth. Had I been fooled? Had I used up all of my cell phone credit, and made a somewhat embarrassing scene for nothing? It seemed that the tale of the whale tooth would forever remain a mystery. Perhaps in this situation, ignorance was a preferable option after all. We had made the most of our short time in Puerto Madryn, and had not only seen whales, our principle objective, but had also enjoyed the delightful, albeit stinky company of the elephant seals. Overall, a mega 'Madrynense' success. 

AFTERWORD: 

Several days later, I received wonderful news from Melissa: "THE WHALE TOOTH HAS LANDED!" Melissa had worked her magic, and had not only recovered my precious souvenir, but also verified that it was, in fact, a baby whale tooth. How cool. My prize would be waiting for me in Puerto Madryn. I guess that means that I have no choice but to return...

The Relativity of 'un Rato': Telling Time, Argentine Style

Years ago in a Spanish culture class, I was first shown this famous Salvador Dalí painting, "La Persistencia de la Memoria" ("The Persistance of Memory"), or, as it is most commonly searched for on Google, the more literally titled, 'Melting Clocks Painting.' I was always intrigued by the work, and yet, found its significance evasive. 'Melting clocks...What could it possibly mean?,' I wondered, pensively stroking my chin.

What I realize now, is that I was asking the wrong question. The issue is not 'What?' or 'Why?', but rather, 'Where?'. Where does this painting take place? Because the truth, of which perhaps even Dalí himself was not aware, is that these are not just any clocks. They are Argentine clocks. (Slowly melting, perhaps, on the shores of Puerto Madryn.) 

Puerto Madryn, Argentina, or surrealist beach setting? Qué sé yo!

During my months living in Argentina, I have learned what I could never grasp in the classroom: the meaning of 'the relativity of time.' Finally, Dalí was speaking to me...

I think she's got it!

In the United States, melting clocks do not exist. 'How can time be an idea, something relative,' I often wondered, 'when it is rigid and fixed, absolute and unchangeable?' 7 o'clock means 7 o'clock. A little after 4 o'clock means 4:05, 4:15 and you're pushing it. 1 o'clock sharp? Like a razor. 9 o'clock on the dot? We're talking the end of a needle. Two minutes late and you're toast. Extra crispy. Indeed, one must faithfully abide by the Law of Time. Arrive late to a carpool? Thou shalt apologize profusely. Delayed to a meeting? Thou shalt beg forgiveness. Punctuality is valued and expected.  'Late' is a a four letter word, the eighth deadly sin.

Don't mess with Time!

Ok, yes, I'm exaggerating a little. But that's how I feel sometimes. Perhaps this is because I am not, you could say, the most punctual of people. In the U.S. I am constantly fighting the clock. And in this epic battle, Ali vs. Time, I am always the loser. Indeed, I have spent many years recognizing my dilatory nature as a point of weakness, a flaw to correct. This past New Year's I even resolved to address my shortcoming, in a well-intentioned but ultimately fruitless gesture to be more punctual. Conveniently, I left for Argentina shortly thereafter...

Turns out that, at least for the time being, I can toss my resolution in la basura. Imagine my utter joy when I arrived in Argentina, and discovered that everyone was just like me: always late! And that not only are they are habitually delayed, but that being late is perfectly acceptable, and at times even socially necessary! I currently live in a country where 'late' is not late, but right on time! 

I thought I was being metaphorical until I saw these in a store in Buenos Aires. 

'I'll be there at 9 y pico' a friend may tell me. 'Pico,' or 'a little bit' may range from 10 minutes, to an hour and a half. Wait 'cinco minutitos.' I was surprised to learn that not only are there 'little minutes' in Argentina, but that five of them can translate to half an hour. And if start times are unclear, then end times are completely unknowable. 'I'll stop by for 'un rato,' or 'a little bit,' could mean anything from 15 minutes to two hours. 'Un ratito,' which in theory is 'little rato,' provides essentially zero temporal information, and could range from 1 minute to an entire afternoon. It's all relative.

And it's wonderful. What is perhaps my greatest shortcoming in the United States has allowed me to adapt to life in Argentina, a country where time is fluid. A place where going with the flow is necessary if you have hopes of maintaining your sanity. A land where clocks melt like chocolate alfajores left out in the sweltering South American sun.

Rewind five months. During my first week in Bahía, a friend told me a group was to meet at 6 at a spot near my house to drink mate and eat some facturas (magically delicious Argentine pastries). Not wanting to be a huge loser and show up right at 6, I had decided it would be appropriate to get there fashionably late, at 6:15. Seemed reasonable enough. When I arrived though, no one was there. My master plan had backfired; I had got there too late. Too late. Ha.

About an hour later I wandered outside to take out the trash, and saw my friend strolling in, with a bag of facturas in one hand, and mate thermos in the other. "Che, Ali! Estás lista?" Could this be real? It was 7:22, one hour and 22 minutes behind schedule, and we were just now meeting. Even by my standards, this was unthinkable. And yet, it was totally okay. As I munched on my medialuna, surrounded by dilatory Argentines, I knew that I finally belonged.

Or perhaps, not quite. For the first time in my life, the tables had turned: I often found myself the first person to arrive. I had a 9 a.m. meeting with all of the 20 international students living with me in the university housing. At 9:07 I ran out of my house, extremely flustered, and peered into the houses whether the others live. No sign of life. Oh god. I was late. The meeting had begun and everyone was there. Mild panic setting in, I sprinted to the English building several blocks away where the meeting was to be held, and burst into the room. It was 9:11 a.m. The room, aside from my director and her assistant, was empty. 

Although I am not the timeliest yanqui there ever was, I am realizing that I am nevertheless bound unconsciously to the Clock of my homeland. I have internalized the notion that I must adapt to Time, and not, alternatively, Time must adapt to me. My friend Carla captured this fundamental cultural difference when she recounted our first encounter to our soccer team: "My first memory of Ali is of her approaching the bus stop, sprinting down the street while scarfing down an apple." This is an image which is not uncommon in the United States, but which in Argentina, categorizes you as very strange, if not freakish. Indeed, there are two things wrong with this picture, as viewed in Argentina:

1) Running on the street. You could say that we take the expression 'running late' very literally. In the U.S., arriving exhausted, flushed and/or sweaty is preferable to showing up late, and it is therefore not uncommon to run to one's destination in order to avoid a major stink eye, or a dreaded tardy. During college, I could always count on seeing at least several students after the bell had rung, heavily breathing as they sprinted frantically to class.

In Argentina, no one runs on the street. Except for me, that is. Sometimes people scream when I run by, seemingly under the impression that I am going to rob them. Clearly this aberrant behavior is not conducive to my assimilation to Argentine culture, and I am therefore making a determined effort to suppress my urge to book it down the street when I notice that I'm late.

2) Eating on the move. In the United States people eat while they're walking, while they're running, while they're driving. En route is primo snack time. I was raised amidst a culture where coffee is synonymous with drive-thrus and to-go mugs, where 'food trucks' are all the rage, and where people eat yogurt called 'Go-Gurt'. It is normal to be in a hurry, and if scarfing down yogurt out of a disposable plastic tube, or devouring a hot dog on stick saves time, then great!

In Argentina however, things are not so rushed. Eating is as much about energizing the body as it is about enjoying one's comida, socializing, and spending times with friends and family. 'To-go' cups are antithetical to the notion of drinking coffee, and it is therefore no surprise that there are only a handful of Starbucks in Buenos Aires, and not a single one in Bahía Blanca. Perhaps that explains why people stare at me as if I were a gorilla escaped from the zoo when I eat a banana on my way to work.

Despite these tendencies, I am adapting to the Argentine Clock. I can now arrive to a party 40 minutes 'late' without a single pang of guilt. I can walk to a meeting in the city center without checking my watch ever 7 seconds. I am making an effort to enjoy my apples in the privacy of my home, though I will not lie, I have not yet been able to fully make this cultural transition.

Besides learning that time is in fact relative, and that I am not fatally flawed, I am finding that Time can be my amigo. That when schedules and meeting times are a little more flexible, that when I am not running down the street, I can stop and enjoy the smell of medialunas wafting lazily from a bakery. I can enjoy a mate gathering for hours on end without worrying about what comes next. Life is not to be rushed, but rather savored. And while the probable effect this will have upon my punctuality upon my return to the U.S. is quite alarming, I am enjoying this new rhythm, embracing this new perception of time which stalls and accelerates, expands and contracts; which gives true meaning to the expression 'making time,' and creates space for the joys in life that transcend the clock.