I went for a short jaunt around Malvín today to take some pictures and get a feel for the area.  My professor for the intensive Spanish review course that I am taking told me about an old cemetery open to the public really close to my house—el Cemeterio Inglesa (or English Cemetery).  So, after grabbing a pear and some tea after class, I grabbed my trusty Nikon and walked about 10 blocks down Ave. General Rivera to check it out.  I walked into the first pair of huge iron gates that I saw, turned to the right, and began reading the ornately fashioned tombstones lining the cobblestone path.  What really caught me attention were the locker-like tombs stacked 6 high around the perimeter of the cemetery, forming a wall of flowers, marble, and short remembrances.  I began tactfully taking pictures, well aware that using a cemetery as the subject for my photographic exploits may not be exactly kosher in this new place.  After a few minutes, one of the grounds keepers walked up and told me that the cemetery was closing.  I asked him if I was in the Cemeterio Inglesa and he responded, “No, está al otro lado de la calle.”

So there was still more to explore.  I continued one more block towards the center of the city and found another rather imposing, gated cemetery right where the grounds keeper told me it would be.  This cemetery was much calmer—like a big garden that just happens to be full of graves.  The place was teeming with catholic imagery: all kinds of interesting crucifixes, angels, and ironwork.  I wanted to snap off a picture of just about everything I saw, but I’ve been trying to develop a sort of creative control.  Sometimes it’s better to really frame your shots well and be careful to only go for the really visually interesting stuff.  I’ve found that those are normally the ones that stick with me and mean more anyway.

After the cemetery, I strolled on down to the beach for some Word time.  Not having been in the area before, I was semi-surprised when I emerged right above the yacht club a couple of kilometers down the Rambla from my house.  I walked down to the understated beach in the corner of the mini harbor and began to cross over to the other side.  As I was walking behind an older man with a ponytail full of really curly hair, he turned around and asked me if I was traveling and if I spoke Spanish.  Of course I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to meet someone new and practice at the same time, so I took a seat on his left side.  We began to chat with the brown waves lapping at the shore a few yards from where we were sitting.  His name was Javier and he was quite an easygoing, enjoyable guy.  He told me that he is originally from a farming town just outside of Buenos Aires but that he has been traveling around the world for the past decade or so.

It’s hard to pick out the highlights because the whole thing was interesting.  We talked about all sorts of things for about an hour and a half.  At first it was politics.  He seemed to harbor some less than warm feelings for the U.S. and began to explain Cargill’s monopoly over much of the agriculture industry in Argentina.  It was interesting stuff and I was happy that I could follow everything he was saying in Spanish.  He leads a pretty darn interesting life, too.  His philosophy is basically to live “día a día,” taking each day as it comes and enjoying as much of life as he can.  He works at yacht club on a small island off the coast of Spain called Formentera three months out of the year.  He paints boats, fixes things, and basically takes care of what needs to be taken care of around the place to earn enough money to travel where he pleases for the rest of the year.  What a life.  He described living in Rio de Janeiro, his travels across Europe, and so on.  I’m not sure I agree with that whole life philosophy—have fun as much as possible and avoid any semblance of responsibility at all costs.  But he did have some pretty good advice for me.  He told me that if I wanted to serve the Hispanic population in the U.S., I would need to understand the “pueblo,” so I should spend time living among the lower classes if I have the chance.  Seems to make sense—know the people that you want to work for.

He didn’t seem to have any set plans for the next few months; he was just going to eat as best he could, find a cheap hotel, and take in life according to his ramblin’ man’s creed.  Really interesting situations like this always take me by surprise.  Sometimes it’s almost overwhelming to think about the diversity of thought, ideals and life styles out there.  What a place.

Saludos,

El Nuevo Barrios