I’ve always considered myself to be an especially adaptable, laid-back and open-minded traveller. I suppose we’re all susceptible to that kind of self-congratulation, especially as you get into the double-digits of countries visited and the triple-digits of hostels slept in, unfamiliar cultural aspects observed, weird and wonderful people from all corners of the earth met.
So, in the face of such reckless and unjustifiable self-confidence, it took me some time to figure out why sometimes, in the last six months of making my life in Peru, I would cry and cry and cry at night. Red-eyed and sniffling, I would protest to Gabriel that this wasn’t me, I’m tough, I never cry. To his credit, he never once pointed out that I did, it would seem, cry on a regular basis. He would merely raise an eyebrow, wrap his arms around me, and wait it out. I never could explain, to him or to me, where the tears were coming from.
Culture shock? I always kind of laughed in the face of culture shock – isn’t that where the fun is? If I wanted to be immersed in the warm comfortable bath of familiarity, I would stay at home; drive the same roads to work every day, prop up the same bars in the Valley every weekend, and spend my holidays at the Gold Coast. But I don’t. Because I love to step off a plane and into the alien chaos of a city where I don’t speak the language, where nobody knows me, where even walking to the corner store for a bottle of water is an adventure. Where sights and sounds and smells I’ve never seen or heard or smelt in my life wrap me up in an exotic fog of novelty.
And so when the opportunity came along to study by distance, cancel my flight home, and extend my stay in Cusco indefinitely, I seized it with both hands with no thought as to its psychological impact. Culture shock? Ha!
But it ate away at me, a sly wearing down of my emotional stability; there were no panic attacks in crowded markets, no obvious sense of opening my front door and being assaulted by a wave of otherness on the street. Only night-time tears and a propensity to lose my temper.
So why here, and why now? I wasn’t this emotionally unstable travelling in Bahrain, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Southeast Asia; living in Spain, Greece and the UK was a piece of cake. And I’m a hardened and experienced traveller, right? Right?
Yes and no. I’ve lived overseas yes, but primarily in hostel jobs, surrounded by travellers, a traveller still. When we get Yamanyá Backpackers open I’ll be returning to that lifestyle, but for now I’ve shifted sideways into the real, real life of a place, surrounded by Peruvians, without the shared experience of backpacking to bind us.
Hostel life in Brighton, England. Hard to be lonely!
Which relates to the next stumbling point – that I was always surrounded by European, Australian or North American friends. They spoke English and got my cultural references. We shared expectations of life, of relationships and friendships, of social interactions, dreams, modes of movement in the world.
Here I don’t have that. I live my life in a language in which I am, so far, incapable of expressing myself in a concise yet profound manner. I live, and am in a relationship, with someone who was brought up with a different understanding of how men and women relate to each other. Obsessed with reading the news and keeping up with politics, I find it impossible to understand the web of political parties and corruption that characterises my adopted country. Social satire goes over my head.
This is something I plan to explore in more detail over the next six weeks. What is culture shock, and how can I become more comfortable with the expat experience? I sent out a request to the wonderful Lonely Planet Blogsherpa and <a title="MatadorU" href="Matador U” target=”_blank”>MatadorU communities for expats who would be willing to share their experiences and was overwhelmed by responses (thanks everyone!).
So I’ll be running two expat interviews a week to find out how others have experienced the transition and how they coped. I’ll also be writing some articles of my own, and presenting some of the best resources on the web for expats. I hope this helps me deal with the expat transition, and any others who may be going through the same thing. I also hope this turns into an interesting dialogue, so don’t be shy – I want to hear your experiences, questions and comments.
Nothing very dramatic really; an obnoxious, slimy middle-aged man on a Buenos Aires street, sidling up to me as I walked past, commenting lasciviously on my legs, sticking to my side as I walked on, awkward, worried about being rude and hurting his feelings as I laughed uncomfortably and declined his offer to accompany me.
A story about suddenly grasping the opportunity to turn a corner and leave him behind, almost stepping directly into the path of a speeding car as I sought my escape.
I almost started the story that almost started this post with a description of the shimmeringly hot, oppressively humid weather, the buildings leaning in, breathing hot air down on pedestrians. The heat that explained that day’s short sundress and long expanse of bare leg under it.
And then I realised what I was doing, and I got even angrier.
What I choose to put on in the morning has nothing to do with how I should be treated during the day. I don’t have to explain those choices to anyone, not even you.
That story should start, finish and end with his behaviour, not my wardrobe.
I wrote aboutLatin American men with more bravado back in August 2011: 5 simple rules on dealing with them, for gals travelling solo! I’d made it all seem so easy; I even believed my own hype. What I left out of that post was that I’d been a bit of a mess for the previous eight months. Around Christmas the year before an ex-boyfriend, Latin, alcoholic, jealous, threatened to kill me, and I half, or three-quarters, believed him.
The Cusco police sent me to the tourist police sent me back to the Cusco police. Nobody seemed inclined to do anything until he actually followed through; I finally found a way through the tangled knots of professional apathy and bureaucratic inaction and filed a restraining order.
He moved to Lima, and I took off to Ecuador, to Cuba, to the northern beaches of Peru. I got my bravado back. Then I went back to Cusco and wrote that blog post:
As Brayan reminded me, the increased attention can, in many cases, be chalked up to cultural differences. Casual sex is far more acceptable in Cuba than in many other destinations, and machismo, whether we like it or not, is a very real part of the Latin American social fabric. Recognizing the cultural background will help you take what you see as harassment less personally.
Dastardly Ex came back to Cusco, and I finally decided the city was slowly devouring me. I put the hostel on the market, and hung on in there for the months it took to sell.
Now I’m in Buenos Aires, alone, aware of my gender as a point of vulnerability. The harassment feels a lot more personal all of a sudden.
(It occurs to me that I’ve seen men publicly masturbate on three separate occasions, when I’ve been alone or with one female friend on an empty beach, or walking through a semi-deserted park at dusk.)
Is there an actual link here, or am I just feeling fragile? Does this “culture” of casual street harrasment feed in, in a meaningful and measurable way, to a machista culture in which ex-girlfriends can be threatened with death, domestic violence is rife and societal inaction the norm? There’s nutty, possessive ex-boyfriends (and ex-girlfriends) worldwide, and let’s face it, women are subjected to gender-based violence in many regions of the world, including the Northern developed countries where street harassment has been reduced in significant measure.
I don’t know, but I do know that I’m sick of it. Back when I had my travel armour on, was sailing contentedly through Latin American capitals, it was easier to write it off as a cultural tick, one that I could deal with (by following five simple rules!). Lately, it bothers me. It makes me think twice before leaving the house in leggings for the ten-minute walk to my yoga class. I jog in the late evenings, head down, guard up. I often cross the road rather than pass directly through a large group of men. I change my behaviour to accommodate theirs.
For all these reasons I was thrilled to read Sara’s post at The Titleless Blog, Let’s make ending street harassment go viral. She wonderfully dissects and rebuts the “it’s cultural” argument, but what got my attention more was her description of an encounter with the Chilean police, having confronted a man who followed her around a supermarket taking her photo. It reminded me of a similar incident described in Sarah Menkedick’s excellent My own Mexican Revolution.
And it reminded me of the police in Cusco who didn’t really care that I’d been threatened with death. This bothers me more than the whistles, the salty comments, the slurping kisses as I walk away. It’s a society that says “boys will be boys”, “you shouldn’t have worn that dress”, “cállate, pendeja“.
Sara’s wonderful post also introduced me to HollaBack!, a global grassroots movement seeking to change this “cultural” behaviour all over the world. (There’s a Buenos Aires chapter as well). This is a cool initiative, and I would strongly recommend that you check it out. What I like most about this project is that it encourages women to come together world-wide: this isn’t a collection of enraged gringas trying to shout sense into insistent Latin men and complacent, accepting Latin women. It neatly sidesteps Sarah Menkedick’s ethical dilemma of fighting for change in a foreign culture. These are just women, from all over the world, in their own language and cultural context, telling their stories.
Vamos, pendejas, no nos callemos.
Note: I still wouldn’t recommend getting into a verbal – or, worse, physical – altercation with a man on a Latin American street. I’m still a little cowed by the slang and manner of speaking in Argentina. It’s vastly different from what I was used to in Peru and I’m pretty sure I’d come off the worse in any exchange here in Buenos Aires. What I like about HollaBack is that there’s options: a stern look, maybe, instead of a stern word. It encourages girls to stick up for each other and explain to male friends that this behaviour is not OK. You don’t necessarily have to holler back, you just have to know that it’s totally within your rights to do so.
Image: Javier García Alfaro via flickr. One of the Madres y Abuelas de la Plaza de Mayo addresses a crowd during a rally demanding justice for those “disappeared” during Argetina’s military dictatorship.
Saturday 24 March was the Memorial Day of Truth and Justice in Argentina. Thousands of people joined together in the Plaza de Mayo to remember those who disappeared during the Dirty War of 1976-1983.
Looking back across years of national mourning, truth commissions, the passing and repeal of amnesty laws, it seems incredible that violence perpetrated by the state can pass by almost unnoticed by so many; that it can become part of the social fabric, unprotested and ignored.
Last year, I read Peru’s Truth and Reconcialition report. That conflict raged in the mountains and remote villages of Peru for well over a decade before the bombs started exploding in the capital and then-president Alberto Fujimori finally captured Sendero Luminoso‘s leader, at great cost to democratic liberties.
A Foreign Policy profile on Patrick Ball, a statistician involved in the preparation of the report, says:
Ball merged six collections of data, reaching conclusions that were highly controversial … the report put the number of killings at 69,000 — nearly triple previous estimates. The enormous gap was proof of the disconnect between white Peru and the indigenous highlands — 75 percent of the victims did not speak Spanish as their first language. How could so many indigenous Peruvians have died without Peru’s elite taking notice?
La historia oficial, released in Argentina in 1985, examines the this phenomena of society-wide blindness. Alicia is a teacher, her husband a successful lawyer close to the military junta. They have a five-year old adopted daughter, Gaby.
Middle-class and comfortable, Alicia never guessed at the violence bubbling just below the surface of everyday life during the seven years of military dictatorship. A history teacher, she teaches the official version; her students, young and hungry for truth, resist, but Alicia cannot, will not, open her eyes.
It seems strange, this naivete in a woman so close to the regime. But perhaps she has even more reason than anyone to firmly squeeze shut her eyes and wish the nightmare away: to accept the truth is to accept her husband’s involvement, to lose the happy family they have managed to build despite her infertility.
It is not until an old friend returns from exile, finally ready to talk about her torture and imprisonment, that Alicia begins to understand what is happening and what has happened, and begins to wonder about Gaby’s parents.
Norma Aleandro is subtly wonderful as Alicia. Roger Ebert writes
It is a performance that will be hard to forget, particularly since so much of it is internal. Some of the key moments in the film come as we watch Aleandro and realize what must be taking place inside her mind, and inside her conscience. Most political films play outside the countries that they are about; “The Official Story” is now actually playing in Argentina, where it must be almost unbearably painful for some of the members of its audiences. It was almost as painful for me.
Through the devastating story of two families torn apart, La historia oficialpresents the larger story of an entire country trying to construct and preserve the memory of a tragedy its citizens – trying to wish away the monster under the bed – let go on too long, and that should never be repeated.
Today, I’m running the part two eighteenth interview in my Adjusting to Expat Life series. If you’re interested in being interviewed about your current or past expat experiences, please get in touch via the Contact page.
Gerrit left Belgium at the age of 22 and over the last seven years has lived in Ireland, Northern Island, Turkey, Germany, Czech Republic and Spain. In this interview, Gerrit talks about his ongoing battle with mental illness, and how this has driven and shaped his expat experience. His poetry project, Illusion of Purity, seeks to break down the taboos around metal illness.
This interview is a little lengthy, so I’m publishing in two parts. We finished Wednesday’s interview with Gerrit as he was on the cusp of leaving for Turkey – read it here.
Today Gerrit talks about falling in love with Turkey, dealing with reverse culture shock on his return to Europe and his advice for new expats.
I imagine you noticed a lot of huge differences between Ireland and Turkey – what really jumped out at you when you first arrived?
Istanbul has, if you include temporary residents and students, 18 million people. That’s like twice the size of New York or London. Ireland has less than half of that spread across the whole island. Istanbul was HUGE. Every district was like a city of its own. The maze of small alleys, the labyrinth of streets, … You could just get lost in a second and every district was so big it would take you weeks to get to know just that tiny portion of the town.
I remember how big everything was, and then the Muslim dress I saw everywhere, the beautiful mosques, the call to prayer coming out of the minarets… It was like entering a different world, but a very fascinating one. Each conversation with a person opened a new world to me because each time I learnt a bit more about the cultural differences. It was so exciting.
The longer I was in Istanbul, the more I also saw common things between Turkey and western Europe. I mean, they have a different religion, some different customs, but in the end we’re all people. They just cared for their family and spent time with their kids and partners just like in Europe, when it was sunny people would come out and socialise. Istanbul, due to its influences from the west, was a nice mix between Middle Eastern and European. The differences seemed bigger at first glimpse than they really were. But then that was part of the reason why I came to Turkey: to discover myself how different it really was, and immerse myself in the culture of the people.
Eminonu, Istanbul. Image: maistora via flickr
In the end my conclusion is that Turks are much nicer folks than the average European. My pride in being European was gone. Turks pay a high attention to politeness, helping out strangers, making them feel welcome, and solidarity. Social activities are central: whenever they can, they go out to the public square and socialise. Tolerance and solidarity are very important in Turkish culture. Back in Europe now, I cannot say how much I miss that. I felt safer there than anywhere in Europe, I felt more at home there than ever before. And now here I am in Spain, loving it here too, but still missing Turkey and the Turkish people. A lot.
Tell us why you moved back to Europe – and how was the reverse culture shock on the way back?
Working permit issues left me little other choice than going back or working illegally. I opted to go back to Europe with the intention to leave back to Turkey with a fully legal work permit as soon as I could. Then the crisis came and I never managed to do that. I tried, but working permits became harder to get by then. I already missed Turkey before I had really left.
Back in Europe, it was very strange. I felt in familiar environment again, but at the same time didn’t really want that. I was lucky to be in Berlin then and find a job there. I lived in a district of town with a large Turkish expat population. I felt like a bit of Istanbul was present there, and that was nice. Furthermore Berlin is a city with an incredible artistic and cultural scene. It is a city where everything goes. Punks, goths, metalheads, hiphop… all were very present in the streets. There were expats from all over the world. It is one of those places where the whole world comes together and where everything goes. That made adaption a bit easier.
Tell us about the other places you’ve lived in Europe – how do they compare to each other, and where do you feel most at home?
I really loved Belfast and Berlin for the reasons mentioned already. Berlin is also dirt cheap. Electricity and water included, you can rent a nice enough flat for less than 300 euro a month. It is the cheapest capital of Europe I believe, although maybe the likes of Minsk and other ex Soviet states would be remotely cheaper. A great place to be really. Sadly enough, a huge depression forced me to leave, I needed a place where I could make a fresh start.
Barcelona, where I live now, is a great city too. It is very lovely in terms of architecture. Each district has a totally different feeling. The inner city is a maze of countless little alleys with very old houses, the authentic Barcelona. It is a very multicultural place too, with a lot of Pakistanis, Indians, Arabs, Northern Africans, Latin Americans… The houses are old and the alleys are a labyrinth, but that is the authentic Barcelona for you. Then the outskirts look very modern and have more of a big big city feeling. The cultural offer is huge too, with plenty of concerts, artistic options and other gatherings. Nightlife is very diverse too I heard, but I can’t speak for myself since I dislike clubbing. Also, this is a big city but also a seaside city. There is a large district with a large shore. In summer, the beach is populated day and night, people all gather by the seaside. The mountains are never far away neither. Architecture is amazing.
L'example, Barcelona. Image: Paco Calvino via flickr.
So while I miss the Middle East, it is nice living here. There is a downside though: it is incredibly expensive. For 700 € minimum you still only have a small flat. For a comfortable apartment you need to count 1000 € a month easily. Other costs of life are high as well, such as food, internet connection… Only healthcare is very cheap: visiting a doctor is free, and medication is incredibly cheap. But all the rest is very expensive. Also, even in a big touristic city like this, people speak English only poorly. You can of course cut expenses by living in a suburbian town, but those are extremely boring. It is recommended really to live in the city here, and that comes with a high price tag.
Then there’s two places left. Dublin and Prague.
I don’t want to be rude but I disliked these places a lot. Dublin is like one big nightlife place. I can imagine it is heaven for those whose spare time consists of clubbing, drinking with friends, and going out. For me, it was boring. Extremely boring. There was hardly ever anything culturally to do. Concerts were the only exceptions. But poetry nights? Artistic spots? Incredibly hard to find. It was also very decadent. People being so drunk they fall asleep on the street in their own vomit, women dressed so revealingly that you feel sorry for them, men and women alike urinating in the middle of the streets… In the suburbs, violence and alcoholism are a problem. And still Dublin ranks amongst the most expensive cities in Europe. When I was there it shared a spot with New York as 13th most expensive city on earth. And what do you get in return? Pubs, clubs, discos and that’s it.
Prague is more or less the same with the sole exception that there you at least have nice architecture. The city center is very compact but some streets have like 10 or 15 beautiful monuments and mansions, some residential houses are so nicely decorated they look like opera houses. I recommend people to visit for sure, but don’t spend more than a week or so there. Don’t let yourself be fooled to live there, because that architectural beautify hides emptiness. Below the surface, there is nothing cultural going on and the exceptions are often unaccessible to foreigners because of the language barrier. People’s spare time is often centered around the pub and beer. I saw a lot of brothels and casinos, all catering to the western investors of multinationals who earned a huge salary. Meanwhile locals were exploited and earned too little to even live decently on their own. It was sad to see. I also felt bored all the time really, there was hardly anything cultural going on. Mass tourism was taking over the place. I went there for the Eastern European feeling, the last part of Europe I had not discovered yet. Retrospectively, maybe Belarus or Ukraine or Poland would have been better options. I feel Prague westernised so rapidly that you hardly noticed anymore that it was a former East Bloc country. Probably great for the locals, but not what I was looking for.
How has living in so many places – 6 countries in 7 years! – shaped you as a person?.
It first of all showed me that there is a lot of beautiful things out there to see, and that leaving Belgium was the right choice. I learnt so many things and opened up to so many new experiences… I wouldn’t have want to miss out on that.
I feel I haven’t seen that much of the world yet. I want to leave Europe if my health allows me, and immerse myself in a totally different culture and way of life. Asia and the Middle East are large attraction poles.
Artistically I started writing in Belfast and started performing in Spain. My project, Illusion of Purity, was formed here, although some of the poems go way back in time.
Politically, I’ve always been very left wing really. In Belgium, the odd thing is most of my family vote Christian-Democrats or Liberals. I felt much more leftist, the family’s political background was not passed on to me. While I was already left-wing way before I saw the Czech Republic, seeing the exploitation, the harms of mass tourism, the alcoholism, the way multinationals were organised, pushed me further to the left. I realise a lot of people from the former East Bloc are happy with the fall of communism and having access to goods never available before. But the exploitation of low cost countries is a fact. Also, the capitalist bubble is bursting more and more too. I will agree that communism was never applied well in the former East Bloc, but I personally disagree that the current situation is a bright picture.
Prague. Image: Jose María Cuellar via flickr
I began to develop a very strong interest in politics along the way and started reading up more and more about it. In the end, I shifted from just left wing to far-left because in my opinion regular socialism is not going far enough in caring for a fair society where people are not equal but have equal chances. I very strongly disagree that people should just make sure they survive by themselves and in my opinion the State has the duty to make sure everyone at least has access to the basics: good healthcare, education, housing. Those should not be priviliges in my opinion, but basic rights.
People wrongly interpretate the far left and maybe even leftist politics alltogether ; they think of totalitarian regimes while those are NOT what it stands for. Communism was not applied correctly in the former East Bloc and it certainly isn’t in North Korea. I wouldn’t want to live in a society where government dictates me how to dress, where to live, how to spend my spare time… So I don’t support totalitarian regimes. Sadly enough people misinterpret left-wing politics too often with that type of regimes.
In terms of religion, as I said I am atheist. However my experiences in Turkey and many contacts with Israelis left me with a very strong fascination for Islam and Judaism. Just because I want to understand the local culture, which is impossible for someone not aware of the religious impact on society.
Finally, emotionally, I think I became a lot more fatalistic. I mean, people sometimes ask me if I’m not worried about not making a long-term career commitment, not building towards a pension anywhere due to relocating often… However, I learnt that the future is unpredictable. All we have for sure is here and now. Who knows what happens in the future? I mean, who knows if I will make it to the age one would worry about a pension? No matter what happens, I want to look back realising I did what I wanted to do in life. And there’s no time to waste in terms of that. You’re better off, in my opinion, to not worry too much about the distant future but make sure you realise your dreams when you have the energy and motivation for it. Whatever I’ve experienced, no one can take away from me anymore. Delaying your dreams for later without even knowing what “later” will be like, is like delaying your life. I’m fatalistic in that and try to make the most of NOW.
How have the language differences gone – have you found communication a problem? Was it easy or difficult to learn enough to get by? Especially as you’ve generally moved around a lot, I’m fascinated to hear about this – so many languages, so little time!
I already spoke English, French and German well before I left Belgium. In Turkey I worked for an international company so communication was not a problem at work, outside of work it was but I tried my best! In Czech Republic, the language was a mystery to me, but since I disliked my time there I never really made an effort to learn Czech.
In Spain, I try to get by with a mixture of English and a basic Spanish and Catalan. I am not intending on learning it via a language course since I want to return to the Middle East if possible. Hebrew and Turkish are thus a more wise investment than learning Spanish, I know the words I need to get things done anyway.
Was there a moment – a country – in which you suddenly realised the extent to which you had integrated? To which you hadn’t?
In Belfast, Berlin and to some extent now here in Spain, I have that feeling. But then we are in culturally familiar soil. As I said, Europe has many regional accents but no huge cultural shocks. I am full of fascination looking forward to leaving that familiar soil and going to a place where I’m out of the western cultural influence. Nothing against that culture – don’t get me wrong – but I want to immerse myself in other cultures too.
I find that writing about my experiences as an expat helps me process the cultural differences. How has your poetry influenced the way you look at your adopted countries?
Not that much really since my poetry is very much focused on life with psychological problems. And those are around everywhere on earth. The poetry is rarely about a specific place, a few poems aside. Some poems are about places I long to go to, expressing the desire for continuous travelling. Some of those with a leftist political undertone have undoubtly been inspired by my growing interest and fascination in politics and my shifting further to the left.
What advice would you have for new expats? What do you wish you had known before moving to your new home?
My advice would be: don’t jump into the unknown without doing some research, but also don’t let yourself be scared of the unknown. A lot of doomsday predictions exist about the unemployment here [in Spain]. “Don’t go, you will end up unemployed”. Well, unemployment IS a huge problem here. But then you need to keep in mind the vast majority of Spanish don’t speak a foreign language. As a multilingual, doors open that are shut for many locals. However, I’d advise against going without assuring a job first here, because life is so bloody expensive. I mean, I’ve seen some ending up in squats because regular renting was too expensive.
In a place like Berlin, where life is cheap, I’d say: if you have a decent saving, you can take the risk of leaving and do your jobhunting there. In an expensive city, that would be not a good idea, although I will add I do admire those who have the guts to do it.
Today, I’m running the eighteenth interview in my Adjusting to Expat Life series. If you’re interested in being interviewed about your current or past expat experiences, please get in touch via the Contact page.
My latest expat interview is with Gerrit de Feyter. Gerrit left Belgium at the age of 22 and over the last seven years has lived in Ireland, Northern Island, Turkey, Germany, Czech Republic and Spain. In this interview, Gerrit talks about his ongoing battle with mental illness, and how this has driven and shaped his expat experience. His poetry project, Illusion of Purity, seeks to break down the taboos around metal illness.
This interview is a little lengthy, so I’m publishing in two parts. Today Gerrit talks about leaving Belgium, life in Ireland and how he ended up in Turkey. Check back on Friday for Gerrit’s time in Turkey and the reverse culture shock on return to Europe.
Tell me a little about yourself, and your current artistic projects. Where did the urge to write poetry come from?
I was born in 1981 in Ghent, a very beautiful city in Belgium. Ghent is a city which looks like time stood still and is very modern at the same time. It has preserved its medieval architecture, but due to the cosmopolitan vibe, expat population and big university, the city combines a modern vibe and cultural life within that medieval scenery.
I unfortunately grew up outside the city in the suburbs. Countryside life in Belgium was hell. I had a very bad youth. I have a form of autism, Asperger Syndrome. It basically means you have a normal or high intelligence but you have only a limited number of interests you’re very passionate about, socialising is difficult due to not reading body language and not interpretating sarcasm and irony correctly, you are prone to sensory overload… on top of that I have clinical depression and have been visiting psychiatrists and psychologists since very early childhood. I was always a loner, I never liked socialising with other children. During my youth, I absolutely hated school, and whenever I came home I locked myself up in my room to study maps and read travel guides. That was my big passion: geography, other cultures, far away countries. I could stare at the maps for hours, at very isolated little islands, very remote villages, small dots on the map, wondering what they would be like.
Central Ghent. Image: Amaury Henderick via flickr
Belgium society is too conservative for my being. Family life, especially in the countryside, plays a very strong role. Like if I look at my family, all of them seemed to marry someone from the same area, have kids and a job and settle down within the 20 km radius of their childhood home. Everyone was following that same cycle of life. Imagine what it is like when you totally don’t fit in and your interests are very different. It was a very suffocating experience. It was almost as if being ambitious and doing something different was forbidden territory. My desire to leave Belgium and never come back, combined with my autistic background, made it increasingly hard for me growing up in that environment.
During my teenage years I developed anxiety disorder and OCD. I basically skipped my youth really, since at age 16 I was suddenly focusing on visiting psychologists, surviving in the battle with OCD that dominated my life. All other guys I saw were worried about dating, going out… I was suddenly into much more drastic problems and worry-free days were extremely rare. I guess it says a lot about my background that of all, someone with my problems was the one to leave for far off destinations rather than settling down.
All experiences of growing up with autism and OCD basically caused the urge to write poetry. I grew up in an environment where you had to conform or you were the black sheep, being different was not done. It was advised to be “as normal as you possibly can” and to hide your diagnosis. The stigma and taboo were huge.
At some point I thought “f… it, I am who I am, and my autism is part of what shaped me. I am not ashamed of myself and I am not going to hide my true self.” Since then I have been speaking very openly about my life with psychological disorders. Poetry was an outlet for my emotions but I kept them safely in a locked box for nobody to read, just writing them down to have the emotions on paper, and that was it. It wasn’t until I realised the impact music had on me that I felt like maybe my poetry could be more than just an outing of my emotions. If others’ lyrics and writings could reach for my emotions, maybe my poetry could do the same with others. The taboo and stigma have to be broken, we need people to stand on the barricade. I felt like starting to perform with my poetry was my way to contribute to the battle in raising awareness about psychological disorders, and telling other sufferers to be proud of who they are rather than to suffer in silence.
Do you think it’s a coincidence that you started writing when you first left Belgium and were living in Belfast? How are your expat and artistic lives related?
It was no coincidence that I wrote my first serious poems in Belfast. Belfast is a very artistic city. When I lived there for nearly two years, almost all of my friends were into arts. Either they were playing in a band, they were writing, … But I went to my first poetry readings in Belfast, open microphone nights, I saw all my friends being in a band… It was very inspiring.
HMS Belfast. Image: Michael Sissons via flickr
You have to remember the background of Belfast. It is a war-torn city that is recovering from decades of violence and still trying hard to get rid of its image as “war zone”. In a place like Belfast, especially before the peace was restored during the last 10 – 15 years, art was one of the only ways to openly talk about what was going on. It is no coincidence the punk scene is very big in Belfast. Punk is the music of protest, the society-criticising music. Punk today is still very present both in the streets of Northern Ireland and in the number of punk bands emerging there. In artistic circles, people tended to be very open-minded, it wasn’t important if you were protestant, catholic, atheist… So it was one of the few places where the sectarianism was not present. Art for many people in Northern Ireland was an outlet of their emotions.
What drove the decision to move to Ireland to begin with?
Along with the Nordic countries (Norway, Greenland and Iceland especially) and the Middle East (in Ghent there was a huge Turkish community, so that triggered my interest in the area), Ireland was a place I was very much interested in from childhood onwards. I am not sure why really, but there was some attraction.
I was 22 when I left. I had one year of studying left to go to get my higher education degree, and I was combining this with my first job. I lived on my own in a seaside home that was very idyllic. It felt like life was falling into place.
But that in itself was a sign for me: if I wanted to realise my dream of going abroad, it had to happen NOW before I was so organised in life that the ties would be too hard to break. I was given the opportunity to take a job in Dublin and took that opportunity. It was now or never. I am still strongly convinced of that. I felt in fact that I already waited too long to leave. But when that job offer from Ireland came, I really still feel that it was a now or never case. I followed my dream basically. I took the hard road, but I am glad I did. Retrospectively I am regretting not having left earlier.
What was the adjustment to expat life like? Did you find the adjustment easier or more difficult than you expected?
More difficult, because I think I stayed just a year too long in Belgium, which made the decision to jump into the insecure and leave or not, a harder decision than if I left straight from that countryside “home” that never felt like home in the first place.
I took the leap but it took a while to cut the ties with Belgium entirely. I felt like I left behind some things that were harder to let go than I imagined before, and at the same time I wanted to be abroad so badly that I was really putting pressure on myself to make it work.
My psychological problems played their role too. Especially OCD. With everything I did, I was wondering how things would be doing those same things back in Belgium, and if I’d feel better or not. In a way it was absurd: I always wanted to just live life abroad, and when I was finally there I was obsessing about how things would be back in Belgium. OCD made it hard to adapt.
I was lucky that after moving from Dublin to Belfast, things changed for the better. I had a fantastic psychologist too who really helped me in stopping to look back. From that moment on, I managed to look forward with ambition rather than to look back with fear. Then Turkey came and this was such a nice experience that I realised the grass was greener away from Belgium. I found that better place, and then I was truly convinced I made the right decision.
Why did you leave Ireland, and why Turkey?
At first the plan was to realise the big dream of going to Norway and settle there for a while. The part above the Arctic circle, Tromsø especially, attracted me heavily. However, even though every Norwegian I encountered spoke English fluently, finding a job without speaking Norwegian was very hard and it didn’t work.
My interest in the Middle East stemmed from going to school as a teenager in a school where 1/3rd of the pupils were of Turkish origin. That triggered a strong interest in Turkey and in the culture of the country. In the religion as well. I am atheist, but I have a very deeply rooted fascination for Islam. It is like a mysterious culture that I want to fully understand. I was in Ireland for 3 years almost and it was time for a change of scenery.
At the same time I met some Israeli folks via the internet. That further triggered my interest and fascination for the Middle East and when Norway was clearly not an option yet, I started to look towards the east. Israel proved to be extremely hard to get into though: in a country full of highly skilled people and with immigrants from all over the world assuring languages are all covered, few companies will want to pay a working permit for a non-jew when a person of Jewish background can just get the passport and doesn’t need the working permits.
In Turkey I was more lucky. I went to Istanbul to apply and it was love at first sight… it felt like entering a different, very fascinating world, where every single conversation with a person and every new alley you entered was a new discovery. It was love at first sight and it never left. I still miss Turkey a lot. Anyways, I was lucky with the job application and three weeks later I was off to Istanbul.
Some homes were primly painted in pastels, green lawn manicured as far as the brown water’s lapping edge. Others were clashing primary colours, the gardens wild. Still others seemed about to be reclaimed by the delta, their docks careening drunkenly into the water, the occasional boat’s skeleton half-submerged.
Dad was visiting, and we were in Tigre. This delta town some 35 km from the centre of Buenos Aires has come back into fashion over the last few years, and is a popular getaway for wealthy porteños (Buenos Aires dwellers). We visited on a Thursday to avoid the crowds: this made for a very peaceful day, but did mean that the amusement park was closed and many of the restaurants weren’t doing parrillas. I’ll leave readers to guess which of these bothered us most.
There are regular ferries and catamaran trips around the delta, often including lunch somewhere on the island. We had my dog, Manu, so we opted for a private 1 hour motorboat tour (ARG350, or US$80). The contrasts are astounding: elegant, ivy-draped rowing clubs and country clubs with spas; secluded twists of the river hiding poorly-maintained shacks. All with the green-and-brown sunshine-draped lethargy of inland water systems: I was reminded of my hut on the Mekong River’s Four Thousand Islands, and any film I’d ever seen featuring the Mississippi Delta. At any minute I expected someone to press play on a John Lee Hooker album.
Next time I go I want to stay. Rent a little shack in ill-repair (I’ll need someone to kill the spiders first, though), read a book on my dock in the sunshine, let Manu paddle in the mud. I’ll need a hammock, and some good Argentine blues to while away the days. I will not need Internet connection.
If you go:
Don’t forget sunscreen and a hat, especially if you’re going out on the water. Consider packing a picnic, although there are plenty of restaurants in town. And remember, trains to Tigre, as well as the town itself, are likely to be packed between Friday and Sunday. Think seriously about visiting mid-week (unless you’re dying to hit the amusement park).
We had a hire car, but there are regular trains from Retiro (ARG2.7 return). You can also take the Tren de la Costa, a hop-on hop-off service that visits several other sites along the river on the way to Tigre. This leaves from Maipú (ARG32 return, ARG16 one way). To reach Maipú, take the Mitre line from Retiro to the final station.
Once there, you can enjoy the casino or amusement park (Fridays, Saturday, Sundays), the enormous market, and various water-related activities. Down on the docks in the mainland part of town are several stalls selling different packages for delta trips so shop around.
The Museo Sarmiento displays Domingo Sarmiento’s home encased in an imposing glass box: the seventh president of Argentina was a champion of democracy and equality in education, and an advocate for Tigre.
The Museo de Arte (ARG12, Wednesday to Sunday) is housed in a stunning columned mansion, once a country club, casino and hotel. They have a small permanent collection of Argentine artists as well as visiting exhibitions.
Flight Centre, the sponsor’s of this post, offer cheap international flights. Their website is a great place to start planning your trip to South America.
On Friday I took my first Chinese class ever, at the Chinese Cultural Centre in Belgrano, Buenos Aires. We were five Argentines, an American expat and myself: asked about our motives for learning the language, most responded with vague references to work possibilities and cultural interest, given the sizeable Chinese population in Argentina and the commercial links between the two countries. Ana, slightly built with iron-grey hair, simply wanted a challenge.
As we exchanged numbers after class before going our separate ways she reflected that she’d certainly got one.
Our teacher was tiny and giggled a lot, demonstrating the tones with dramatic arm gestures and stamping feet, singing the language and basically being exactly what I’d expected.
It reminded me of my brief flirtation with Quechua: a language completely foreign to my ears, with no Romance-language markers or sounds to grab onto and build comprehension around. We won’t be touching the Chinese characters until level 3 (thank heavens!) but I still felt cast adrift in unfamiliar waters.
When I got home I googled “learning mandarin”, wanting some audio lessons to help me wrap my head around pronunciation and the four tones before the next class.
Among the results I turned up a Newsweek article by linguist John McWhorter, English is here to stay. This is the kind of article that has language aficionados up in arms: the general gist being that hey, if you speak English, its not really worth the effort learning another language. The New York Times provides some forceful responses to this general argument in their Room for Debate section: that beyond the cognitive benefits, language learning provides and will continue to provide immeasurable returns in all facets of our globalized lives.
Language fascinates me. I had so much fun learning Spanish – after the initial panic – and struggle to understand expats who live for years in South America without getting beyond the absolutely necessary. Finishing Cien años de soledad on a beach in Peru was one of the most exhilarating academic experiences of my life. (Language geeks are sexy, aren’t they?). The time I invested in the language has brought considerable returns already.
Chinese is a different story. It will require a much greater investment of time to reach a comparable point of fluency, and that point may never be reached. I’m not living in China and have no plans to move there, so I’m denied both the learning facilitation of immersion and the immediate payoffs of a smoother expat life.
There’s a financial cost as well: I took Spanish classes here and there, but largely depended on friends, books, online exercises and lots of practice. I’m fairly sure Chinese is going to be classes all the way, a not inconsiderable financial investment if I’m going to reach proficiency.
But over the last few days the doubts crept in. Could McWhorter be right? I’ve been flirting a bit with Brazilian Portuguese. French also appealed to me. Mandarin went from possibility to decision very quickly. Had I really thought it through properly?
My primary motive was to add a little bling to my CV: I plan to stay in the Latin America region once I graduate and hope to work in development. China has links and trade interests here as it does in any every other part of the world and will be an important partner in regional development into the future.
But then I began the struggle with tones and Mary Anne began trying to scare with me tweets about Mandarin’s difficulty…
And then one morning I opened my eyes and saw my bookshelf, one of its shelves a ragged row of worn spines with Spanish-language titles. Bugger it. The New York Times team were right: it’s worth it, and for so many reasons beyond cold economic benefit.
Updated 31 March: There’s another interesting collection of articles over at Intelligent Life. Start with Which is the best language to learn? and work your way through the related articles on the right.
I may be feeling a bit more confident but I could still use some help – if you know of any Chinese bands, movies, podcasts, TV shows, websites, or other resources pass them on in the comments! I’ll be eternally grateful…
I find them curious figures, the Latin American caudillos, the strongmen leaders and dictators who are so common in the region’s history. Recently I listened to an interview with Enrique Krauze, author of the latest edition to my Amazon wishlist, Redeemers: Ideas and Power in Latin America. Some of Latin America’s most iconic figures have been revolutionary strongmen (and women), and he described them, in this interview, as almost Christ-like figures, blinded by their passion, devoted to revolution at all cost, seeking redemption not just for themselves, but for their people.
The non-revolutionary dictators have interested writers as well: Mario Vargas Llosa found the small and grotesque in the final days of the Dominican Republic’s Rafael Trujillo in the The Feast of the Goat: A Novel; Gabriel García Márquez, fascinated by the solitude of power, wrote about the tragedy of Latin America’s first homegrown caudillo, Simón Bolívar, in the The General in His Labyrinth. (García Márquez is also a steadfast supporter and admirer of Castro).
The Fall of Fujimori is a compelling and balanced look at Peru’s most recent strongman, Alberto Fujimori, president from 1990 – 2000. This son of Japanese migrants was an agricultural engineer and maths professor – a surprise entrant in the 1990 elections at a time when Peru was suffering from hyperinflation and terrorism. Once installed in the Presidential Palace he stabilised the economy and with an iron fist brought years of bloody terrorism to an end*. By 1992, Abimael Guzman, leader of terrorist group Sendero Luminoso, was being paraded before the press in the black-and-white stripes of comic-strip convicts.
Fifteen years later Fujimori also faced charges in Peru, and is currently serving sentences for murder, bodily harm, kidnapping, illegal search and seizure, embezzlement and bribery. His (unconstitutional) third-term government fell just months after winning the 2000 elections, following the leaking of hundreds of videotapes. They show the shadowy right-hand man of the president, Montesinos, the country’s spy-master, committing bribery on a huge scale.
Director Ellen Perry finds the tragedy in this lonely figure: the opening sequence shows Fujimori alone, rolling a suitcase down a hallway in Japan and applying powder for the cameras. It is a powerful contrast to the scenes of adulation and the crowded family breakfasts shown later.
The stock footage used is well-chosen, capturing the horror of Peru’s political violence without resorting to melodrama. The tension between the fight against terrorism and the preservation of democracy is drawn out, and more questions are posed than answered. Against it all a portrait of Fujimori emerges, hazy but fascinating.
Perhaps the most inexplicable of Fujimori’s decisions is his return to Latin America, determined to win the presidency once again, despite international warrants for his arrest. This extraordinary display of hubris reminded me of something I once read about limeño politics: in Peru, you can kill, steal, bribe and still be reelected, but for heaven’s sake, don’t make yourself an object of ridicule: that’s the only thing voters can’t forgive.
* Terrorism is ongoing in a few remote areas of Peru, but on a much smaller scale than previously.
I was preparing a whole different post. A cop-out post. A round-up of useful or just plain cool Buenos Aires blogs and websites for new expats, like me, who have yet to get a serious grip on the social or cultural life of the city. Like me.
Google had other ideas.
It led me to a New York Magazine article from 2006, A Moveable Fiesta. Its description intrigued me:
Buenos Aires has become an expat haven like Paris in the twenties – except with girls in bikinis.
I think my brain stopped taking in information after it hit the hyphen because I read “Paris in the twenties” and immediately started thinking about what an incredibly fertile ground it was for all kinds of art and literature and romantically alcoholic madmen (and madwomen). And I got really excited about living in a city approaching that level of historic awesomeness, and of course I clicked through.
But this was not the thrust of the article. It’s perfectly well written, and being placed in the Change Your Life section of NY Magazine Guides should have been a hint. So this is not a criticism of the article itself, but of the attitude it discusses. At a time when I’m (still? always?) trying to wrap my head around what it means to be an expat this article summed up what, for me, it definitely doesn’t mean.
We meet Dominic LoTempio, an expat in Buenos Aires:
“I came to live life as a rich guy,” he says. In fact, he lives like a Master of the Universe—not like some Wall Streeter who checked out with enough to be technically, barely, a millionaire, but like the young, loaded Hollywood version.
The article discusses the economic benefits of living in Argentina, but stresses that:
Life in B.A. isn’t perfect by any means. The litany of expat complaints includes one-ply toilet paper; slow restaurant service; strikes that shut down subways, airlines, or highways nearly once a week; and, as LoTempio puts it, an “embargo on cool shit” like plasma TVs, which arrive six months late and cost twice as much.
At this point I was already gnashing my teeth a little. It all felt like a much more articulate version of the Craigslist posting that had me up in arms a month or so ago. This attitude that, if we have the cash, we can head anywhere in the world and make it our personal Disneyland – even if this particular theme park has yet to discover the joys of two-ply toilet paper.
Steven Blackman knows all about making sure people in New York are aware of How Great His Life Is in Buenos Aires. He visits the city every six weeks to tell them about the dinners at Sucre, the drinks at Gran Bar Danzon, the fashion events in Punta. Not to mention the fact that he pays $800 a month to rent two adjacent apartments from the son-in-law of Susana Giménez, Argentina’s surgically enhanced version of Oprah. Or that his maid comes five days a week: “She cleans over the same places every day, even though nobody’s been there. It’s insanity. But it’s something like 10 pesos a day. I’ll deal with it.”
Sometimes I wonder if I over-think this whole expat thing. I grapple with notions of otherness and whether I should vote back home and where I belong and whether nationalism is healthy or not and how people like me, drifting across borders, fit into that greater philosophical and political debate. (This run on sentence touches on what I originally wanted to post about today, before I utterly failed to organise my thoughts and fell back on the round-up post idea which turned into this – witness incoherence of this paragraph).
But this article left a bad taste in my mouth. The prevailing attitude seemed to be a total lack of respect for the host country’s culture, people and economy. They were simply a means to the expat’s end: of feeling like a ‘big fish’, of living the high life, of hanging out with sexy Argentine women in bikinis. Kant would definitely not approve.
Read the full article here. I’d love to hear what you think. Am I just being a stick-in-the-mud?
I was painting in broad strokes in Cusco and didn’t realise it.
I stuck toes my toes first, then wallowed luxuriously in the shallow end. I lived and worked in a backpackers. It was a holiday that blended into expat life. Sure, things got crappy and stressful and overwhelming and I made a lot of mistakes (including suddenly diving into the deep end instead of continue to inch my way further out bit by bit), but looking back on it I marvel at how easy it was, not to live there, but to make the small decisions that, together, led me to spend two years in Peru. And I marvel at my bright-eyed naivety in the first few days, weeks, months.
Moving to Buenos Aires, I had my eyes open very, very wide.
And the transition was… less dramatic. There was less theatrical tearing of hair and wringing of hands as I weighed up university options and looked for reasons to stay. I felt less heroic, I guess, less like a girl standing on top of a bridge with a bungee cord wrapped around her waist, winking extravagantly at those to follow before pushing all doubts down inside her belly and flinging herself into empty air.
(Not that I know what that feels like, because my fear of heights is quite happy to remain unconfronted, thank you very much).
I arrived in Buenos Aires around the same time of year as I’d arrived in Cusco two years earlier (the 22nd and 24th of December, respectively). I didn’t, as I did in Cusco, fall into a bottle of Pisco only to emerge a week later. I spent Christmas quietly at home enjoying a few luxuries I didn’t regularly enjoy in Cusco: imported cheeses, affordably delicious Malbec, and peace and quiet.
It was nothing dramatic or exciting. But over time I realised I was painting with a finer brush and wider palette.
Arriving in Cusco with rudimentary Spanish, I was flattered by people’s patience with my stammering and abysmal pronunciation and would gleefully wade in to any conversation without worrying too much about my language skills. This was that glorious stage in the language learning process when one is past the fear of speaking but not really conscious of how much remains to be worked on.
In Buenos Aires, even as a fluent speaker who was perfectly at home in Peruvian Spanish, I got a bit of a shock.
In Peru I would open my mouth and, warned by green eyes and pale skin, everybody would be bracing themselves for my accent before a single word came out. Here, I can pass as Argentine. Until I open my mouth, that is, when a very Peruvian form of Spanish sallies forth in broad Australian accent (I still can’t pronounce my Rs correctly).
I spent a week as a waitress, before deciding that 6 am knock-offs for an abysmal wage were no longer for me. I would waltz up to my customers, smile my patented tip-inducing smile, and launch into my welcome spiel. Entire tables of customers would stare at me and say, “eh?”
So despite swearing to Peruvian friends that I would never, never lose the very limeño way of speaking I learned from them, I’m rapidly training myself: vos instead of tu, como andás instead of que tal, che instead of amigo. I’m suddenly a bit uncomfortable again, hearing clearly the striking differences between my manner of speaking and everybody else’s.
Peruvians, and especially the young Lima crowd I hung out with in Cusco, are very frank. They don’t mince words and tend to “take the piss out of each other” in a way very familiar to this Aussie. I fit in quickly and well.
That doesn’t fly here. I’ve had to make a couple of very sincere apologies to friends who didn’t see the funny. Not their fault, or mine, but a cultural adjustment I need to make before I offend half of Buenos Aires.
Public spaces are more widely occupied: the park on my corner is a broad and bustling cross-spectrum of the city in all its glory. In Cusco I never noticed so many people sitting down, socialising, interacting with the open places of their city.
These and a million other tiny differences. The weird part is its not even the differences in themselves that really grabbed my attention: rather, sitting on the subte (subway) or talking to friends, riding buses or reading the paper, I feel like everything’s in sharper focus than it was on arrival to Cusco.
It’s a very cool feeling, because it means I’ve learnt a lot, and shows me I’ve still got a lot to learn.
How have your expat experiences varied? Have you grown and learned?
Would you like skip my rambling and just find out how to rent an apartment in BA? You don’t know what you’re missing, but OK. Click here. This is some quality rambling, though. Just sayin’.
I signed the rental contract on my new Buenos Aires apartment yesterday, and then I went to look at it again. To pace out the measurements, shoot photos, and see if there was wifi to steal borrow (there’s not).
It’s entirely possible that when I originally went to see the place I was so relieved to have not spent an hour on the subte to get there, or be standing in an airless space with no natural light, or have to imagine myself showering while standing on top of the toilet, that the walls actually receded as I stood, giddy and delusional, by the balcony door.
When I got there yesterday (having first spent a good ten minutes trying to open the wrong door, scaring my neighbour and thus getting off to a really good start) it was smaller than I’d remembered. Much smaller.
I’d imagined some kind of day-bed type thing – double, of course – facing the balcony and serving for sleeping and lounging. Yes, I would lounge. I would lounge the hell out of that apartment.
This would leave more than adequate space for a tall bookshelf and a spacious desk by the window where I would sip glasses of chilled white wine while turning out witty articles and insightful blog posts. My gauzy, rich orange drapes would blow gently in the breeze throughout this entire process.
Now I find myself wondering if beds come in a size smaller than “single”, and if the noise of the street would really preclude me from putting the desk on the balcony.
I also don’t have drapes yet. This is a problem, because my apartment is so small it can basically be seen in its entirety from the street.
But hey, its not that bad. See that? That’s my local parkgiant back garden. A giant back garden that comes with cute doggy friends for Manu, attractive boys on guitar or playing soccer football for my viewing pleasure, and lots of sunshine and trees. Parque Las Heras justifies at least 50% of my monthly rent.
Apartment Rentals in Buenos Aires
1. Type of Rental
Apartments in BsAs come in alquileres, your stock-standard long-term rentals and alquileres temporales, or temporary rentals. This may be my rental market naïveté, as I can’t remember the last time I actually rented a place in an actual city, but I read “temporary rentals” as being a couple of months, and definitely not what I wanted.
Not so. Rentals in Buenos Aires are, by law, for a contract of two years. Anything less than that is a temporary rental, and is noticeably more expensive. I get the impression the latter is the option most foreigners take. Guarantee (bond) requirements may be looser, and you are way more likely to find a furnished property. If this is the option you choose, your life will be simpler. Flick through the following points, just in case, then cruise on over to the links at the bottom of the article and start looking for your dream home.
2. Guarantee
I like to make life hard on myself. I also objected to the higher prices for temporary rentals, and decided that really, furniture wasn’t expensive enough to justify paying extra month after month. Goddamnit, I would have a proper rental and decorate it as I saw fit!
This is where I ran up against problems.
Most agencies require ownership of property in Argentina (sometimes it has to be in the capital) to act as guarantee for the rental. Maybe you have a really amazingly trusting friend here to volunteer, but nobody I know in Argentina owes me a favour that enormous. So I spent days calling up about properties, asking if there would be an alternative means – a cash bond of x months rent? – and crossing out address after address. It did save a huge amount of travelling time by cutting my list of potential apartments into about a tenth of its original size.
I’ve put down a 12 month deposit in cash on my new apartment. This is why point 3 is really important.
3. Contract
This is a lot of cash. This is also a long time – two years – to commit to an apartment. That’s quite a long time for me to commit to an entire country, come to think of it.
It is, therefore, hugely important to vet the agency you will be dealing with, as well as the contract you sign with them. Check out their certificates and offices. Ask around. Google them. They should be registered and have a government-issued number. Make sure there is a reasonable exit clause in the contract in case you don’t make it the full two years.
Do not sign the contract without reading it carefully (I shouldn’t really have to tell you that, should I?). I was given mine to review in peace and quiet several days before we actually signed it, which is always for the best. No matter how good your Spanish is, legalese in any language is tricksy, so have a local look it over for you as well, if you can.
4. Assorted money stuff
Like apartments all over the world, you will be responsible for costs, building fees, and so forth. Figure out what these are before you sign, and keep in mind that the government is considering reducing the subsidies on services. Inflation being what it is here your water bill might go up, considerably, in the next few years.
To my surprise, agent fees are paid by the tenant here. Be clear on what these are.
5. Finding a place
I was dying to live alone, plus its a little difficult to rent a room in a shared apartment with a dog in tow.
But if you want to skip all the aforementioned dramas, head over to MercadoLibre or Craigslist Buenos Aires and click on their “share” sections (both also advertise rentals for one person). Both entail the obvious risk of dealing with strangers in an unregulated online marketplace, so be careful. MercadoLibre is in Spanish, Craigslist a mix of Spanish and English. The latter is on the whole oriented to tourists or expats so the prices tend to be in dollars and rather more expensive than you would find elsewhere.
The quality seems to be quite high though, so for a comfortable, short-term rental with all the amenities and in a posh part of town, this may be the best place to look.
ZonaProp have both alquileres and alquileres temporales. Everything is in Spanish and it is a portal used primarily by real estate agencies. I found my apartment here.
Above all, and especially if you’re looking to share, ask around in hostels and restaurants. Some owners rent directly and leave signs up around the neighbourhood. Obviously this brings its own collection of risks and complications, but shouldn’t automatically be discounted. A group of Colombians – friends of a friend – met some guy on the street who rented them an apartment to share for a great price and with a tiny deposit. Lucky sons of bitches.
Provided he doesn’t kick them to the curb in a few months.
brinkofsomethingelse 