Che Boludo!

I learned a lot about life in Argentina in Jesus Maria. I tried Fernet Branca, a popular digestif, served commonly with coca-cola – it has a strong herby smell and isn’t nice. I watched local tv – dreadful with hours and hours of histrionic news, more football (not just the top team matches but EVERY SINGLE game going on in every tiny hamlet) and almost as much soap opera time (I’ve long been a fan of Latin American novellas (soap operas) which are unintentionally hilarious – populated by screeching women who spend their days raking their long plastic nails through their long silky hair, gorgeous or scheming men (always one or the other and usually both), long suffering servants who have hearts of gold and the last laugh. They’re an ear splitting cacophony of love gone wrong and wrongs righted, set in important historical times, in huge fancy estates, in the forest, among gypsies and fashionistas). In Jesus Maria I tuned into Los Valientes – a familiar tale of lust, deceit and betrayal. There were also hours of game shows with second-rate showgirls in their knickers, stroking the prizes and licking their lips. And lots of dull table-banging chatter. I thought sophisticated Argentina might have done better.
From Patricia, who was I was staying with, I picked up lots of Argentine slang – boludo/pelotudo (jerk) – these terms she used to describe her ex-husband and her ex-boyfriend the drunk butcher (put down the cleaver, Sergio) and most men in fact – cullardo (very rude), quilombo (mess; my favourite), boliche (bar), chocha (chuffed), chota (broken), potro (stud), chorro (thief), bombachas (knickers but also the pleated trousers gauchos wear). You can imagine the sort of things we talked about.