Zárate -- a real Argentina?

Note: I was in Zárate from Aug 5 - 13, 2012

 

I can only imagine Zárate as an analog to the small towns of California—sure we fetishize Los Angeles and San Francisco, the two main draws for tourist activity, but I would postulate the small towns in between (e.g. Fresno, Visaila, Bakersfield) are the real indicator of California status, for better or for worse. 

Kelci in front of the bridge in Zárate

Analogous is Buenos Aires to Zárate, which is even more pronounced since BA is the one metropolis of Argentina. Zárate itself has some 300,000 inhabitants, but the quaint city center seems much smaller. There is one main road (Justa de Lima), two plazas (Mitre Square—el principal plaza—and Italy Square (Plaza Itailia), where the amphitheater and wading pool are located), and the waterfront of the Rio Parana de las Palmas with its bewitching bridge, Complejo Zárate - Brazo Largo, which became my favorite destination. Zárate's livelihood revolves around its factories. There is a Toyota factory, a Honda factory, a handful of beer breweries, a peanut factory, and many more, including Monsanto, those global agricultural terrorists. 

I was lucky enough to land in a hotel with owners that quickly became a surrogate family. Néstor and Julia, proprietors of ARX Hoteles, took me on a Zárate "city tour" on my 4th day in town, probably out of pity for my isolated cara blanca. As we drove around the town, the refrain quickly became "carro, carro, carro, carro." Some 30,000 newly manufactured cars populated lot after expansive lot, all waiting to be shipped out. This is where the port of Zárate comes in—without doing any research, I would hazard a guess that the main (international) export of Zárate is automobiles, which, I observed, are carried by cargo vessel to receiving nations. 

Sunset from the hotel window

Industry aside, I found the people of Zárate to be nicer and more willing to engage in conversation, for better or for worse. The townspeople appeared to be majorly comprised of teenagers who rode around in/on their loud, tricked out cars and scooters, much to the dismay of my ears. Of course this is a phenomenon we see in the juxtaposition of cities to smaller towns all over the world: small cities urge their populations to forms of entertainment not necessary in bigger cities. Meanwhile, the bigger the city, the more stress its inhabitants deal with in their daily routines; Porteños are wrapped up in their own trials of accomplishing errands and working to support themselves within the context of a bustling capital. I know I was certainly a victim of the "city disease" back in San Francisco—I regulary stressed out about getting to work on time, the rising price of my monthly bus pass, the sound my neighbors made in the night, the overflowing trash bins of my apartment, my leaking washing machine, the refuse dumped on the corner of the Rabbi's burnt and abandoned house on the corner. In Zárate, I floated free: as far as I was concerned, there was no real world, despite the exclaimations of the locals outside my window at 5 or 6 a.m., once their night of dancing at the local clubs had come to an end. 

What I originally planned as a maximum five days in Zárate stretched into nearly two weeks. Grimaldi, the shipping company by whose vessel I was to travel to Europe, said embarkation would be delayed by 4 or 5 days, news I received once I had arrived in Zárate and Néstor called the port agent on my behalf. Later, Grimaldi's minions informed me I would have to venture to Montevideo in Uruguay to board my ship. The definite date became hazy as I waited for final confirmation and stressed about going back to Buenos Aires, taking the Buquebus to Montevideo, and dealing with another border crossing and need for overnight accommodations, all while absorbing and adapting to a new culture and city. At the last minute before my departure to Montevideo, the confirmation evolved once again: I received an email that indeed I could board from Zárate, as the ship's course had changed another time and the full load of passengers coming down from Europe could disembark in Montevideo before Zárate, making room for yours truly. This was great news except I was at a loss as how to pass another week in this small town. 

Panorama shot from the waterfront

I made due, and I found that I had nothing to be ashamed of in terms of my lack of mastery over the Spanish language and the Rioplatanese dialect. The waitstaff in the cafes and restaurants I frequented quickly interpreted I was not a local and made due with bringing me what I ordered—a pure economical exchange without embarrassment or judgment. Also I grew more bold in reading body language and inflection in the absence of language comprehension. Still, however, I felt the swell of anxiety as I set my mind on venturing out of the hotel for dinner, yet it always turned out fine; I again was eating healthily, a sufficient amount of calories per day to keep the flesh on my bones and my mind clear. 

Twice I went to the Esquina Parrilla in Zárate, the second time with the whole gang. If you haven't heard, Argentines are really into their grills. This prix-fix style menu lists all the weird little goodies from the cow that we chowed down on. I do believe there was also a running joke about eating horses.

Slowly but surely the comforts of having a room and ensuite bathroom to myself, and a family of Argentines who took me in as their own, turned into an authentic experience of how life is conducted in Zárate. Time after time folks would ask, Why are you here in Zárate alone?, flabbergasted that a young attractive woman such as myself would find her way to this obscure corner of the world. Time and time again I attempted to explain in Spanish, with my horrible accent:  Yo voy a ir en un barco. Yo voy a ir a Brasil, Senegal, Alemania, Iglesia, y Bélgica. Always the respone: Sola? And me: Sí. 

On the topic of my interrogations, I must mention that a woman with mostly-blonde short hair, often mistaken for a youthful 20 or 21 years of age, alone in a cafe or restaurant in Zárate caught much attention from Argentine males: I had many a dinner or breakfast interrupted by a curious man. Once this attention resulted in a hand-drawn orchid on an index card presented by an interested male on his way out of the Plaza Cafe; the back of the card revealed a full name and phone number (quite a novel souvenir). I was most amused by the waitstaff of the Nuevo George cafe, who were convinced I was German, not American. Typically, the interested male party just wanted to talk (usually nearly impossible due to his lack of English and my horrible Spanish), and would wind up the conversation with an invitation to take a ride in his car, to go to a party with him and his friends, to go to a club around the corner to dance. I repeatedly refused, my refusals tempered by a nervous giggle and diplomatic gracias, pero no. I wondered to myself: am I missing out on some authentic experience by declining? Is this what marks me as an American: my antisocial and reticent tendencies? But then it would always come back to a practical matter of conversation: I am already totally exhausted from trying to communicate in this cafe; why would I subject myself to more mental trauma by accompanying him to another venue? Safety was rarely a concern, as truly the generosity and compassion of this culture surpassed the jaded warnings of the United States; in Zárate, people just wanted to entertain and insure a lone American brought back good tidings upon return to her home state. 

I went to an event at the Zárate Cultural Center that featured a photography exhibition, a live performance by a tango band, and a performance by a tango dance troupe. This photo is of the exhibition space in the center. I almost sneaked out of Argentina without any tango experiences—so glad I got a smaller, more quaint preview of the cultural staple in Zárate.

So I passed my days in Zárate, with these unusual interactions and a good dose of internet and television in my hotel room. I became a local fixture at ARX CEO'S Hoteles. A few days before my alleged departure, I was awoken by a knock on my door around 12:30 in the afternoon—Julia had come to tell me there were two guys playing pool in the hotel that spoke English, and that I should meet them. I got dressed and came out of my room; awaiting me in the game area of the hotel were Marc and Marco, two guys a bit younger than myself who had come from the tiny country of Luxembourg, which is nestled in the armpit of Belgium, France, and Germany. 

A surprise to myself: I began speaking in English with a forgotten gusto, finally able to relay my tales of being in Argentina alone for over three weeks. Perhaps they did not understand some of my language, yet they laughed at my humor and we exchanged questions and answers. Later, Julia came to say those chicos should relocate from the other hotel in the chain, Tango, to ARX CEO's, so that I would have English-speaking company. Later that night, Néstor not only brought Marc and Marco over, but also Lukas, a traveling Dutch salesman from the North part of the Netherlands, who also spoke English. Finally, after so many days of deranged English thoughts and poorly annunciated Spanish, I had a group with which to externalize my thoughts and opinions. 

My English speaking posse: Marc and Marco from Luxembourg , yours truly, and Lukas from the Netherlands.

That night, a Saturday, we spent drinking coffee (me and the Dutchman) and beer (the Luxemborgians), and talking with Nestor and Julia in the common areas of the Hotel about politics, the state of Argentina, and the local characteristics of Zárate, all of which involved much slow pronunciation, gesturing, and diagram drawing. Somehow my horrible Spanish transformed into a tool with which to translate to Lukas, Marc, and Marco; I swelled with pride: perhaps I had learned something of Rioplatanese Spanish and the mannerisms of Argentines, even though in my solitary shyness I had stowed it into dark interiors. I went through the ropes with the newcomers: the way the town works, how much to tip in a cafe, the way business was conducted in the hotel. Once we took a walk to the waterfront, I imparted all my knowledge of the local sites upon them. I, a lone American woman, had paved the way for three male Europeans, and in the process made friends to visit upon my arrival to Europe. Marc mused that indeed I was like a child to Néstor; he was happy and full of good cheer as he brought the English speakers to my branch of the hotel and as my voice truly sounded without reservation for the first time in a week and a half. If I was happy, Néstor was happy. The evidence of this also was apparent in our eating habits: Nestor routinely invited me to dine with him and his family. Indeed, I rest assured knowing I have extended family in Zárate, and would not hesitate to return when the opportunity presents itself. 

My Argentine PEEPS: Nestor and Julia from the hotel. I talked about them a lot while I was on the ship.

Interestingly, I discovered Marc and Marco were waiting for their car to arrive on the Grande Buenos Aires from Antwerp, upon which event they would embark on a tour of the Pan-American Highway. So: their car arrived and was unloaded as I boarded and set sail from the destination from which their car came. Small world, yet totally expected in Zárate, with its small port being the only international attraction in town. The three of us tracked the progress of the vessel religiously, using the website marinetraffic.com. Together we despaired when the vessel seemed to be heading back to Brazil from Montevideo (well, they made jokes while I basked in confusion), and together we rejoiced as, hours later, the marker on the web site's map drifted up the river and beneath the bridge on the morning of my estimated departure. 

Getting on the ship itself was, as expected, a fiasco, one that I mostly attribute to the Argentine culture, with a dose of Grimaldi and the nature of cargo travel thrown in for good measure. Nestor drove Marc, Marco, and me to the port on Monday, August 13th (my half birthday—six months till 30). As we approached the entrance, the Grande Buenos Aires loomed on the shore, as large and white as the grandest landlocked industrial complex. My heart swelled with anticipation while my stomach swelled with anxiety. Excitement circulated all around. Upon arrival Marc and Marco were able to take care of their paperwork business although their car was not unloaded yet. However, my fate was still unsure: the worker at the port window informed Néstor that I would need to return tomorrow. We all rolled our eyes. Néstor engaged in true Argentine nature, especially accented as he is a lawyer: showing emails and messages on his smartphone stating otherwise and calling upon feisty Spanish rhetoric to argue my case. Finally, after much back-and-forth and some phone calls, the window worker received word I could return at 3 pm to board the ship. 

Eureka! My first siting of the Grande Buenos Aires.

So, we all returned to the hotel and I spent a few last hours with Marc and Marco playing table tennis and talking. 3 o'clock finally drew near and Nestor and I got in his car, picked up his son and his son's girlfriend, took his son to the bus terminal, and then his son's girlfriend, Maria, accompanied us to the port. Again, a round of Spanish rhetoric and back and forth: this time they maintained I had to go to the sister city of Compana to complete my customs paperwork although there was no previous notification of this. Néstor and Maria, also a lawyer, argued my case; finally I was admitted entrance into the port to board my ship. I hugged and kissed Néstor and Maria goodbye and headed in the direction of the gates of the port entrance, toward a car waiting to shepherd me to the ship. I fought back tears: again, I was leaving a family that I regarded as my own, whose kindness and generosity is enough to lambast the most jaded and cynical American. The sadness mixed with self pride: I am a blessed person to encounter such good in people all over the globe, even if I am compelled to depart again and again. And with these thoughts I approached my looming cargo vessel, which would be my home for the next month.