Futbol Fanatics

I've only been in Buenos Aires for a month, but already I have caught the futbol fever that is ravaging through the Americas.  Some United States citizens don't even know about Copa America that is taking place in their own backyard, but, I assure you, all of Argentina is on the edge of their seats, myself included.

A few weeks ago, I had the great honor of watching my first futbol match: Argentina v. Venezuela.  I even had my very own commentator, an Argentine with a lot of patience.  I asked far too many questions, but I wanted to know about this new world of soccer.  More importantly, I wanted to know why the fans were so crazy about the sport.

Fans is too mild of a word.  A better one is "fanaticos" or fanatics, also known in Latin America as "hinchas."  These people don't like futbol, they worship it, especially the fans of the Argentine selection team.  The crowd, decked out in their "celeste" or sky blue is a part of the game itself. 

But fans aren't just found in the stadium; some of the most die-hard fanatics are found sitting on a sofa in front of the their own television.  When watching the game, it is not unusual to hear all your neighbors within hearing distance simultaneously cheering when a goal is made.  In the case of the Argentina v. Venezuela match, Argentines had plenty of chances to cheer. 

The score ended up being 4-1, Argentina.  The great hero of the night was none other than Lionel Messi, arguably one of the best futbol players of all time.  Messi has a crowd of worshippers all his own.  All his followers were especially devoted to him last weekend during the match against U.S.A. in which Argentina won 4-0.  One of these goals was made during an impressive penalty kick by Messi.  As little as I know about soccer, I knew there was something nearly miraculous about the kick that sent the ball in to the right corner of the goal just out of the goalie's reach.

I cannot help but hope that this same kind of fever for futbol and Messi will grip the nation in the form of love for the Gospel and for Christ.  Imagine what would happen if we were fanatics for our faith.  It would change the game of the world forever. 

All of the soccer enthusiasts will be watching the match against Chile this Sunday for the finals.  Of course, I will be watching as well and cheering for the team that made me fall in love with the sport.  Futbol games, however, will end after two forty-five minute halves, and the glory of a win fades eventually.  Our lives on the other hand, are longer, and the glory of being a fan of the Gospel will never fade.    

Passion of the Plaza

I wasn't prepared to see the Plaza de Mayo.  My teammate and I with one of our new friends decided to casually stroll through the area on our way to visit Puerto Madero; however, our friend was, as many Argentines are, late, and we were left to wander around the plaza.  Before long, the history had absorbed us.

The Plaza de Mayo is situated right in front of the Casa Rosada (the Pink House) where the President works.  In the heart of the plaza is a statue commemorating the revolution for independence on May 25, 1810.  Since that date, the plaza has been the literal political arena of Argentina. 

The Plaza de Mayo was the site for the protests that ended in the release of Juan Peron who later became president as well as the beginning of what would become the Falkland Wars. But the most intriguing to me is that this very spot is where the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo gathered in the 1970s.  The group is made up of women with children or grandchildren, called "desaparecidos" or disappeared, who were presumably killed by the government during the Dirty War.  The Mothers wear the symbolic white handkerchiefs on their heads to symbolize peace, and hold up signs with photographs of the missing. 

But the Plaza de Mayo is not something of the past.  Manifestations and demonstrations are held daily.  When we visited, there was a group protesting the public school system.  The roads were barricaded, drums were being beaten, and people were marching with signs in tow.  In fact, the Plaza is also a place where the past and the present meet.  Every Thursday the same Mothers of those disappeared in the Dirty War march on the cobblestones of the plaza which are now painted with the symbol of the white handkerchief.

What seemed a bit bizarre to us, is normal here in Argentina.  Protesting is simply the way that people express themselves.  When Argentines are loyal to things, they tend to be more loyal than the rest of us.  Whether that's to their country, a futbol team, or a political belief.  My prayer is that Argentines will have that same fierce passion for God, and maybe we could learn a lesson from them ourselves. 

From the Comunas to the Villas

Argentina is a city of immigrants.  Of course it all began with Spanish colonization in the 1500s, but what many people do not realize is that there was a huge wave of immigration from Europe in the 19th century.  A large percent of people in this era arrived from Italy; however, there is a sizable number of Jews and Germans that sought refuge in Argentina before and after World War II.  In fact, Argentina has the largest Jewish population in all of Latin America.  Lately, immigration has still been relatively steady with most of the influx coming from Bolivia, Peru, and other Latin American countries as well as Asia.  Because of these waves of immigration, Argentina has the second largest population of immigrants behind the United States.  Now where do all of these immigrants settle? None other than the port city of Buenos Aires, of course.

All this to say, Buenos Aires is home to a wide variety of people.  It is because of this diversity, that I, thankfully, do not stand out, at least at first glance.  If someone were to see me sitting on the bus(keeping my mouth shut) I would pass quite easily for a Porteño. 

Buenos Aires, however, is not necessarily a melting pot.  Each immigrant has brought an ingredient to the table that has retained its unique flavor.  This uniqueness is obvious in the very geography of the city.  Buenos Aires is made up of fourteen different "comunas" or neighborhoods.  Each comuna has a different flavor of sorts, and these past few weeks I have had the honor of  taste testing each of them.   

I have nearly seen it all, from tangoes in the vibrant comuna of La Boca to an orchestra concert in the distinguished comuna of Palermo.  However, the place that has awed me the most does not belong to either of these.  In fact, it is does not belong to a comuna at all.  On the outskirts of the city, immigrants have "squatted" and built their own houses with whatever materials are available.  This is called a "villa" or a slum. 

Villas aren't even given names because they aren't recognized as neighborhoods.  Instead, they are given numbers.  I had the opportunity to not only see but walk up and down the muddy avenues of a villa called Villa Veinte or Slum Twenty.  Stepping over dogs and people and rubble, I made my way into another world. 

I may forget the color of the dress of the tango dancer in La Boca and what the orchestra played in Palermo, but I will never forget the faces of the people of Villa Veinte.  I don't think you can ever forget something like that, and I don't think we should.  My visit to the villa reminded me of how wealthy I am, not just in the financial sense, but the spiritual as well.  I have more to offer these people than just money.  I have Christ who is worth more than all the riches in the world. 

Adventures in Mate

It has only been a week since I arrived in Buenos Aires, and yet I feel like it has been months.  This could be in part because of the weather.  The Southern Hemisphere seems planets away from the summer I left at home.  I've retired my shorts and t-shirts and am layering every article of clothing I brought in my suitcase.  Buenos Aires wasn't kind to me the first few days here.  It has been cloudy, windy, and rainy; however, the sun has shown its face a couple of times in the last few days for which I am very grateful (so grateful, in fact, that I have found myself stopped on the uneven sidewalks amidst hordes of people just to soak in a couple of rays). 

Still, the most vibrant source I've light I've discovered is not the sun but the people of Buenos Aires themselves.  Tuesday I was able to go to a women's Bible study in a barrio where a large population of immigrants to Argentina live.  A group of about six of us (and a few stray children) came together in one of the women's houses where we ate crackers, talked about the Bible, and shared remedies for any sickness imaginable.  We made up quite a group (Bolivians, Argentines, Uruguayans, and Americans), but I could still feel a sense of unity between us despite our different nationalities. 

I felt this unity even more when the mate (mah-tay) came around.  Yerba mate is a traditional Argentine drink made of the leaves and stems of a tree from the rainforest.  The beverage is served in a gourd-like cup with a metal straw.  Mate is a communal drink, meaning everyone present drinks from the same cup and straw as it is passed around in a circle.  The host or hostess is responsible for pouring hot water over the leaves each time someone drinks from the cup.  Each person is expected to drink until all the hot water is gone from the cup, and just the leaves are left.  When he or she is done, more hot water is added, and the cup is passed to the next person. 

However, mate is more than just a drink; it is a symbol of acceptance.  It is a gesture in Argentina that says something like, "you are welcome here."  For this reason, I was honored to be passed the gourd while spending time with my new friends.  Of course, I was also a little wary of the germs that were being passed around as well.  Still, I could  not deny that I felt a deeper connection with these women when it came my turn to drink from the cup.  Now, the flavor of the drink itself is a required taste that I am still mastering.   Never, though, would I turn down a mate.  No matter how bitter the contents of the cup might be, we are all drinking it together, and there is comfort in that.

One of the things I have learned in my short time here is that people are all different, but we share the same struggles and the same God.