Cosquin Rock is an annual rock festival that is as close to an Argentine Woodstock as I can think of...it's complete with hippies selling hand made jewelry and other hand made goodies on the road to the field, so they could buy tickets to the concert. The aroma in the air was one of sweat and ... cannabis...haha...yes it was mos def what I would imagine Woodstock being like. No worries friends and families, I partook only in the musical enjoyment of the festival...and the entertainment provided by the intoxicated and “affected” people of Cosquin Rock. We took a bus for about an hour to the countryside where there were already a plethora of shirtless and dread-bearing gente lounging under the trees and walking around. When we reached the "entrance" (10 men checking for tickets) after about two or three hours of meandering and such, we were told that no drinks were allowed "inside" (on the road...outside...past these burly men). Most of my friends had just purchased giant cups of sangria which they would now need to drink...sweeet. So we proceeded to shuffle to the side of the giant crowd waiting to get "in" and encountered some extremely interesting borachos (drunken men). Though Argentina may be the exception to the "tiny people of Latin America" rule, they still have their fair share of shorties. These borachos were tiny, loud, and extremely flirtatious. After some attempts to give me a beso, this one tiny man proceeded to "give me his heart." ie: he put his hand to his chest made an exaggeratedly painful face and presented his closed fist to me, complete with the pulsing of said heart. Though I was very much flattered, his combination of drunkenness, 90's jean jacket, mullet and my prejudice against the shorties deterred me from accepting...also I forgot to mention that when friends took a picture of paige, myself, and said boracho, he copped a feel....note the picture
There is the cutie himself, so now looking at the picture myself, perhaps the jean jacket was simply projected because I see it so often here, it becomes a part of every Argentine wardrobe. however, still, hilarious experience and my dear friend Paige rescued me quite a few times from his tiny grip.
I hope that this introduction has been sufficient enough for the tale I am about to tell about tell. As we moved with the masses after downing the sangria, we walked about 2 km to a giant field where there was already a band playing. It was probably around 11:30 and as we moved towards the front in anticipation of Manu Chau (popular Argentine singer, my friends adore him, I had no idea who he was but thought it would be a grand time) who was the closing act of this three day festival. We were jam-packed together in the gigantic crowd (about 14,000 in attendance) only a few rows from the stage and Manu himself. As the band began to warm up, the anticipation or fear in our case was palpable. Then...we were literally ripped apart by the insane mass as the music started. Remember how Jack said would never let go but then went and died on Kate? I was floating away like Jack's corpse, only into a sea of crazies. The look on my face as I was pushed, pulled, and thrown around was probably similar to those of people about to meet their doom in every B horror movie ever made but let me tell you it was panic in its finest form. At one point as I plummeted to the ground and thought to myself: "this is the end, I am going to die in Argentina, stampeded by a crowd of smelly 15-35 year old guys...awesome!" However, arms reached down to pick me up and air was my friend again. As I decided that this was a survivable situation, I fought my way through, still with the same panic stricken look spread across my cara (face). When I reached a place where I could finally breathe, relieved cannot describe my feelings. I audibly praised Jesus and proceeded to the Port O Potties where I waited for my friends who found me about an hour later (oh texting how I adore thee) However, there were a fallen comrade: Paige thought that in a crowd of 14,000, she could definitely find me by going into the beast...though it was a valiant effort, we did not encounter one another and she lost her cell phone. But once I was reunited with my glorious friends, the time we had was filled with dancing and mostly relief on their part that I was alive and safe. We headed back on a bus around 3 and though I had a bleeding foot (a past wound had been stomped open by the other concert goers) we were feeling tired but great. After a 4 am late night/early morning snack at a greasy local eatery, we headed home. All in all, I survived, praised Jesus, had fun with friends and learned something about the crowds of Argentina: they are 10 time more rambunctious than an average American concert and I do not plan on venturing into one again.
There is the cutie himself, so now looking at the picture myself, perhaps the jean jacket was simply projected because I see it so often here, it becomes a part of every Argentine wardrobe. however, still, hilarious experience and my dear friend Paige rescued me quite a few times from his tiny grip.
I hope that this introduction has been sufficient enough for the tale I am about to tell about tell. As we moved with the masses after downing the sangria, we walked about 2 km to a giant field where there was already a band playing. It was probably around 11:30 and as we moved towards the front in anticipation of Manu Chau (popular Argentine singer, my friends adore him, I had no idea who he was but thought it would be a grand time) who was the closing act of this three day festival. We were jam-packed together in the gigantic crowd (about 14,000 in attendance) only a few rows from the stage and Manu himself. As the band began to warm up, the anticipation or fear in our case was palpable. Then...we were literally ripped apart by the insane mass as the music started. Remember how Jack said would never let go but then went and died on Kate? I was floating away like Jack's corpse, only into a sea of crazies. The look on my face as I was pushed, pulled, and thrown around was probably similar to those of people about to meet their doom in every B horror movie ever made but let me tell you it was panic in its finest form. At one point as I plummeted to the ground and thought to myself: "this is the end, I am going to die in Argentina, stampeded by a crowd of smelly 15-35 year old guys...awesome!" However, arms reached down to pick me up and air was my friend again. As I decided that this was a survivable situation, I fought my way through, still with the same panic stricken look spread across my cara (face). When I reached a place where I could finally breathe, relieved cannot describe my feelings. I audibly praised Jesus and proceeded to the Port O Potties where I waited for my friends who found me about an hour later (oh texting how I adore thee) However, there were a fallen comrade: Paige thought that in a crowd of 14,000, she could definitely find me by going into the beast...though it was a valiant effort, we did not encounter one another and she lost her cell phone. But once I was reunited with my glorious friends, the time we had was filled with dancing and mostly relief on their part that I was alive and safe. We headed back on a bus around 3 and though I had a bleeding foot (a past wound had been stomped open by the other concert goers) we were feeling tired but great. After a 4 am late night/early morning snack at a greasy local eatery, we headed home. All in all, I survived, praised Jesus, had fun with friends and learned something about the crowds of Argentina: they are 10 time more rambunctious than an average American concert and I do not plan on venturing into one again.
No comments:
Post a Comment