Strangers on the Bus

Yesterday marked my official three-month anniversary with Uruguay, and it is really quite amazing to think about how much things have changed since September. I remember thinking during my first few days that Montevideo seemed absolutely enormous – not Houston big or Buenos Aires big, or even Accra big for that matter, but still somehow massive and forbidding, a concrete-and-brick giant on the Rio de la Plata…and then I learned my way around the city, how to walk downtown in an hour, how to get to two different beaches in 50 minutes or less, where the parks are, where the fresh fruit and vegetable market in the neighborhood is held every Saturday, which buses go to which parts of town. Suddenly, the previously indomitable Nephelim-by-the-river (so sue me…one of my free-time activities is studying Hebrew) began to feel like a big village. I take the bus to and from work, and I know people – the little girl in her school uniform with her baby brother in tow, the local high school students on their way to afternoon class, the night workers in the food packing plant. The same inspector, blue suit and dark sunglasses, gets on at the same stop almost every day to check tickets, and I have his routine memorized. He gets on at the first stop once we have turned off of Avenida General Flores, chats for about 5 minutes with the driver, and then works his way through the cabin, checking tickets. He prefers to check tickets from his right to his left, always tears off the same corner (upper right), and as he hands back the ticket says “gracias” with an accent that makes him sound more Italian than Uruguayan.

The city itself has changed, too. I got here in the bleak, gray, rainy winter…memories of my first month here are dominated by sunless days, having to wear three layers even while inside buildings just to keep the chill down, and of gray – gray buildings, gray streets, gray skies, and gray attitudes. But then, the sun came up and with it came the spring. It has been, at times, a chilly spring, but a sunny one. Montevideo is beautiful in the spring – the jacarandas bloom and start raining purple blossoms onto the sidewalk, the jasmines come back to life and the whole city smells like perfume from the people selling jasmine blossoms on every street corner, the sky is an intense blue, the tree-lined streets which seemed so drab suddenly become shady, green avenues that are delightful for walks, and those parks and beaches that I discovered are actually worth visiting to sit under the eucalyptus trees with a book.

It has been said before that cities are like people, with distinct personalities, likes and dislikes, ways of life, attitudes, and moods. In my experience, this is true, but leaves out one important detail. For me at least, Montevideo itself is more than just the setting for my year with YAGM; it has become a character in the story as much as any person here. It is, in its own way, a part of my community here. It might not talk to me (I think I would be very concerned about my mental health if the sidewalk one day just decided to start up a conversation with me), but nonetheless, I feel on some level like Montevideo is not just a place, but an active member of my story, growing, changing, sharing.

Of course, it really is the people here that make the community -Montevideo, alive as it might be, is no substitute for friends, and even strangers. My friends and their role in my life here is obvious – they are the people I talk to, have meals with, work with, play with, matear with, and live with. We have been to organ concerts, murgas, and music museums; Bible studies, business meetings, and all kinds of worship services; parks, beaches, fairs, and apartment parties. I could name names, but that would simply not be fair to anyone left off the list – all of the church members, staff at La Obra, folks in grupo de jovenes and choir, fellow residents of Piso 1 in 8 de Octubre 3328, fellow volunteers, and the like have been so integral to my experiences here that I cant not mention someone, and I have too many people to mention.

The most strikingly different aspect of my life-in-community here, though, are the strangers. I don’t know the check-out girls at the supermarket, the UCOT inspector on the bus, the little girl with her baby brother, the liceo students, the night workers, the book seller on 8 de Octubre with books ranging from a bilingual edition of Martin Fierro to The Kama Sutra of Oral Sex, the jasmine sellers, the blind woman with the tin can in front of the hospital next door to the church, or any other of the recurring incidental characters in my story here, but I still feel some odd sense of connection to them. They are a part of my life; I see them all almost every day, and they see me. We ride the same buses and work on the same block, shop in the same MultiAhorro and walk past the same kioscos and statue of Larrañaga. We might not talk, or even know each other, but we nonetheless share so many experiences, small as they may be, with each other every day. I notice when someone is missing, when the little girl doesn’t catch the bus or the book seller decides to take a Saturday off. In our own way, we are a community – not a community of friends or co-workers, but of people sharing the living space and, I suspect, silently watching out for each other when we can.

To close on an extremely anti-climactic, house-keeping note...I am about to go back and add captions to all the photos in the photo entry from last month, so if you have been dying to know the who, what, when, and where of those, now is your chance!