Habla, Barrio

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/article/top-10-things-to-do-in-mexico-city

Back in 2022, I went to Mexico City with two friends, Luis, who’s Mexican and grew up in CDMX, and Erick, who’s from Miami with Cuban parents. Because we stayed at Luis’s house, the whole trip felt way more local than anything I’d done before. We spent the week eating ridiculous amounts of tacos, exploring different neighborhoods, going out at night, and even watching horse races at the Hipódromo. It didn’t feel like a vacation; it felt like stepping into someone else’s everyday life.

https://obras.expansion.mx/construccion/2014/03/15/hipodromo-de-las-americas-52-hectareas-de-adrenalina

Since it was still close to the pandemic, the whole city had this energy of people trying to live again, which connected perfectly with what Feliba describes in his article about Buenos Aires’ tango clubs reopening. He talks about how people weren’t just returning to dance, they were returning to feel normal again, to reconnect with each other. Mexico City felt exactly like that. Restaurants were packed, nightlife was booming, and there was this excitement everywhere, whether we were eating tacos al pastor at 1 a.m. or standing by the racetrack watching crowds shout for their favorite horse. You could tell the city was still recovering, but also refusing to slow down.

https://culinarybackstreets.com/stories/mexico-city/top-tortillas

Traveling with Luis and Erick also made me think a lot about what Mallet and Pinto-Coelho say about Latino identity, not as one unified block but as a mix of differences shaped by national background and experience. For Luis, CDMX was home. He understood every detail of the city: slang, food spots, inside jokes, social cues. Erick, even though he grew up in Miami surrounded by Cuban culture, felt connected but also slightly outside the Mexican context. And I was somewhere in between, Latin American, but not from Mexico, trying to understand it through both of them.

Seeing how each of us reacted to the same place in different ways made the reading feel real. Latinidad isn’t one thing; it shifts depending on who you are, where you come from, and how you move through the world. That 2022 trip showed me that sometimes the best way to understand these readings isn’t in the classroom, it’s by traveling with friends who carry their own versions of Latin America with them.

References:

Feliba, David. “Masks and Distance Were Hard. Now Argentina Is Returning to the Tango.” The Washington Post, 13 Oct. 2022.

Mallet, Marie L., and Joanna M. Pinto-Coelho. “Investigating Intra-Ethnic Divisions Among Latino Immigrants in Miami, Florida.” Latino Studies, vol. 16, 2018, pp. 91–112.

https://www.clarin.com/deportes/seleccion-fotos-historicas-diego-maradona-celebrar-59-anos_0_5xnm2-wP.html

In 2022, a group of my friends from Lima and I decided to “get to know Buenos Aires.” Of course, that sounded great on paper: like a cultural trip complete with museums, history, and deep reflection. The truth? We’d all been to Argentina before… just never by ourselves. Our real goal was simple: go out, meet people, and see if the city’s nightlife was as legendary as everyone claimed, and it was. Buenos Aires parties until six in the morning, as if it were a national sport.

The trip turned out to be a mix of chaos, culture, and fernet con Coca. (A lot of fernet con coca.) We barely drank Malbec, except for the weekend in Mendoza, where refusing wine would’ve probably been considered a crime. But in Buenos Aires, fernet con coca was everywhere. It felt like the city’s unofficial fuel.

The highlight of the trip, though, was definitely the Boca Juniors vs. Racing match at La Bombonera. We somehow managed to get seats close to La 12, Boca’s famous ultras. From the moment the game started, they basically forced us to sing, jump, and wave our arms nonstop for ninety minutes. There was no option to rest. The entire stadium moved like one single organism, and I realized that this wasn’t just football; it was a ritual.

https://footballhost.com/blogs/experiences/the-passion-of-boca-juniors-fans-an-unforgettable-experience-at-la-bombonera?srsltid=AfmBOop0tMHtVF-Vk5vZyjB7Z9dfW-YPMZZBxVVa3K3Mbr4QXU3s1ZL5

That energy reminded me of how Skidmore and Smith describe Argentina’s history during Perón’s era: a country built on collective spirit and emotion. Inside La Bombonera, you could feel that same working-class pride that Eva Perón talked about when she spoke of “el pueblo.” The chants, the colors, the sweat, everything felt like a living version of her speeches. Boca wasn’t just a club; it was el pueblo unido with drums and flags.

One night, we also went to a tango performance, though “went” might be too generous; we were basically dragged there by one of our friends. Still, it turned out to be worth it. The dancers moved with an intensity that made silence feel loud. Watching them, I thought about David Feliba’s article on tango’s comeback after the pandemic, how it represents connection, resilience, and the soul of Argentina. You could feel that. 

The rest of the week was a blur of food, music, and endless conversations. We ate asado at Don Julio, which honestly lived up to the hype. Around the table, between jokes and stories, this warmth reminded me again of Eva Perón’s message about unity and love for the people. Everyone was equal there, just sharing meat, laughter, and way too much chimichurri. We ended the trip with a weekend in Mendoza, surrounded by vineyards and mountains. It was slower, quieter, a perfect ending after Buenos Aires’ madness. That’s when we finally switched from fernet con coca for Malbec (temporarily).

Looking back, what started as a “let’s go out in Buenos Aires” kind of plan turned into something much more profound. Argentina isn’t just beautiful; it’s alive with history, rhythm, and pride. From the chants of La Bombonera to the steps of tango and the flavors of asado, every part of it reflects what the readings showed: a country where culture and people are inseparable, loud, passionate, and always ready for another chorus.

References:

Feliba, David. “Masks and Distance Were Hard. Now Argentina Is Returning to the Tango.” The Washington Post, 2022.

Perón, Eva Duarte de. “History of Peronism.” In Born in Blood and Fire: Latin American Voices, edited by John Charles Chasteen, W.W. Norton, 2011, pp. 251–255.

Skidmore, Thomas E., and Peter H. Smith. Modern Latin America, 6th ed., Oxford University Press, 2005, pp. 84–89.

If there’s one trip that changed the way I see Latin America, it wasn’t a city or a beach; it was the jungle. In my last year of high school, we spent a week in Tambopata, deep in the Peruvian Amazon. It was humid, endless, and alive in a way that no city ever could be. We stayed in wooden lodges surrounded by nature in every direction, visited Indigenous communities, and learned how they live in harmony with the jungle. Every step felt like entering another world, one where humans are guests, not owners.

Swimming in the Amazon River was one of the craziest things I’ve ever done. The water was dark brown and thick, hiding everything underneath. When I jumped in, I felt a rush of fear, not knowing what was below me. By the end, all my clothes were ruined, completely maroon and smelling horrible. We laughed about it later, but everything we wore had to be thrown away. Still, that swim felt like a baptism into the wild, into Pachamama herself.

Nothing, though, compared to the night solo. One by one, each of us was left along a narrow jungle path, about a hundred meters apart, with no flashlight and no sound except the forest. When it was my turn, the guide whispered, “Stay here,” and walked away. Within seconds, I couldn’t even see my own hand in front of my face. The darkness was total. You could hear everything, insects, branches snapping, the river far away, but see nothing. I sat there for thirty minutes, heart racing, trying to stay calm. It was terrifying, but also strangely peaceful. When the guide finally came back, it felt like waking up from a dream. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, one that made me realize how alive the jungle really is.

Not everything went smoothly. When one of my classmates was climbing a massive tree, he got bitten by bullet ants, the kind locals say hurts like getting shot. He screamed, and we all froze. It was a quick reminder of how powerful nature is out there, how small we really are.

That week in Tambopata reminded me of what María Valeria Berros describes in “The Constitution of the Republic of Ecuador: Pachamama Has Rights.” In Ecuador’s 2008 Constitution, Pachamama, Mother Earth, is recognized as a living being with rights. In the jungle, that idea didn’t feel like philosophy. It felt real. The jungle breathed, the river moved with purpose, the air itself felt alive. Berros writes that this vision “challenges older paradigms of progress and development,” and I saw that tension everywhere, between conservation and extraction, between living with nature and living off it.

It also echoed what Bose et al. explain in “Women’s Rights to Land and Communal Forest Tenure in Latin America.” Many of the people we met in Indigenous communities were women. They led the tours, teaching us about medicinal plants and sharing stories about the river spirits. Bose argues that women are often at the heart of land defense, and it made sense: they were the ones teaching the next generation to care for the earth, not exploit it.

At the same time, I couldn’t stop thinking about Rosemary Thorp’s “Progress, Poverty, and Exclusion.” She shows how Latin America’s natural wealth has been extracted for centuries, leaving deep inequality behind. On the way to Tambopata, we passed through areas destroyed by illegal gold mining, rivers turned yellow, trees gone, and entire patches of jungle erased. It was the same story Thorp tells, still happening today: a region rich in resources but scarred by inequality.

That trip made me see what sumak kawsay, the “good way of living,” really means. It’s not about wealth or growth, but balance. Sitting alone in that forest, hearing the pulse of life around me, I understood what Berros, Bose, and Thorp were all trying to say in different ways: that the fight for land, equality, and respect for nature is all part of the same story.

When our boat finally left the river, I looked back at the jungle fading into the mist. It wasn’t just another trip; it was a lesson about what it means to live with Pachamama, not above her.

References:

Berros, María Valeria. “The Constitution of the Republic of Ecuador: Pachamama Has Rights.” Environment & Society Portal, Arcadia (2015), no. 11, Rachel Carson Center for Environment and Society, https://doi.org/10.5282/rcc/7131.

Bose, P., et al. “Women’s Rights to Land and Communal Forest Tenure: A Way Forward for Research and Policy Agenda in Latin America.” International Forestry Review, vol. 19, no. S4, 2017.

Thorp, Rosemary. Progress, Poverty and Exclusion: An Economic History of Latin America in the 20th Century. Inter-American Development Bank, 2012.

If there’s one thing my family doesn’t miss, it’s football. Since South Africa 2010, we’ve packed our bags and gone wherever the game takes us: Qatar, Brazil, even Russia. The 2018 World Cup in Russia was unforgettable because it marked Peru’s return to the tournament after a 36 year absence. Singing the national anthem in a stadium after decades of waiting felt electric. So when Peru made it all the way to the Copa América final in 2019, it felt like another miracle: the same chills, the same pride, the same “we can’t miss this” energy.

So off we went: my dad, my uncle, my cousin, and me, plus the usual crew of family and friends that never miss a big match heading to Rio de Janeiro. We’d been to Brazil before, but this trip felt different. It wasn’t sightseeing first; it was football first. Still, we did the classic stop at Cristo Redentor because you can’t go to Rio and not stand under that giant statue with your arms wide open.

The night before the match, we joined thousands of Peruvians outside the team’s hotel for the ‘banderazo’. Imagine a sea of red and white, Peruvian flags everywhere, drums, chants, smoke bombs turning the night sky red, strangers hugging like lifelong friends. We sang until our voices cracked hoping the players could hear us through the windows. That night felt like a living example of what Fernando Ortiz calls transculturation. He wrote about “the extremely complex transmutations of culture that have taken place here” in Latin América. There we were: Peruvians bringing Andean pride, Spanish slang, mixing with Brazilian samba rhythms, Portuguese shouts from curious locals, and global football vibes. It wasn’t just Peru or Brazil anymore, it was something bigger, a Latin American party with a global beat.

Game day at the Maracanã hit me even harder. The stadium: massive, historic, echoing with decades of football stories, is a perfect example of what Richard Kagan means when he talks about cities as “spaces of cultural expression” shaped by centuries of colonial and postcolonial life. Rio, once a Portuguese colonial hub, now hosts fans from all over South America screaming their lungs out. The stands were a swirl of colors: Peruvian red and white, Brazilian yellow and green, Argentinians who had just come to watch the chaos, and Uruguayans waving flags. Football turned the city into a single giant plaza, alive with identity and noise.

On the field, it was Peru vs. Brazil, David vs. Goliath, but with drums and fireworks. Brazil: five-time World Cup champion, playing at home, samba kings, versus Peru, the underdog. That’s precisely the kind of “contact zone” Mary Louise Pratt describes: “social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other”. There was rivalry, yes, we were drowned out at times by the Brazilian drums, but also mutual respect. After Brazil won, some fans came to congratulate us, hugging and taking selfies. We’d clashed, but also shared the joy of being Latin Americans united by the same love of the game.

The whole trip reminded me why football is so much more than a sport. It’s about history, cities, languages, food, and families. Walking out of the Maracanã with my dad, uncle, and cousin, even in defeat, felt like victory. We’d carried Peru to Rio with us, sang ourselves out, and seen a living lesson in how Latin América keeps reinventing itself: blending, clashing, celebrating.

Football brought me closer to my family and to Latin América’s pulse. Ortiz would’ve seen the cultural mixing, Kagan would’ve noticed the city alive with new meaning, Pratt would’ve recognized the contact zone right there in the stands. Me? I call it unforgettable.

References:

Cuzco, Peru, 4200m above sea level

When I think back to my community service trip in Cuzco, a few things come to mind: the thin air, the laughter of kids who destroyed us in soccer, and a swarm of 42 bees that ended up sending me back to the hospital in the city. We went as a group of friends through our small NGO, hoping to help in a town that sits more than 4,000 meters above sea level. The idea was to build simple homes, plant trees, and bring food and clothes. But as usually happens, we didn’t just “help”, we also learned a lot.

The first lesson came on the soccer field. We thought we were going to show off some skills, but after one sprint, we were gasping for air, hands on our knees, while the kids kept running like it was nothing. They laughed at us, and honestly, we laughed at ourselves too. That moment made me understand what Mary Louise Pratt means when she talks about “contact zones,” the spaces where people from very different worlds meet and exchange. Yes, we brought bricks and rice, but they gave us humility, energy, and a reminder that football really belongs to the Andes.

Being there also made me think of Alexander von Humboldt, who passed through the Andes centuries ago. He wrote about “the altitude that suffocates”, and I couldn’t agree more. Just walking up a hill with supplies felt like climbing Everest. And yet, these families have lived there for generations, turning survival into tradition: farming potatoes, chewing coca, and raising animals in a landscape that would defeat most outsiders.

Of course, not everything went smoothly. One afternoon, I decided to go rappelling, and out of nowhere, a swarm of bees attacked me. Forty-two stings later, I was back in Cuzco, spending two nights in the hospital instead of finishing the project with my friends. At the time, it was terrifying, but now it’s the funny story I always tell. Humboldt would probably say that nature in the Andes is both beautiful and dangerous. For me, it was definitely both.

Even though my time there was cut short, what I saw left a mark. The families didn’t have much, but they had pride and joy. Their kids played barefoot, their elders wrapped in colorful textiles kept watch, and everyone carried themselves with dignity. It reminded me of Calle 13’s Latinoamerica, when they sing: “You cannot buy my happiness, you cannot buy my pain”. That line describes perfectly what I felt there. You could see poverty, yes, but you could also see smiles, love, and resilience that no money could buy.

That trip was supposed to be about giving, but in reality, it gave me more. Between being out of breath, losing to kids at soccer, and surviving a bee attack, I came back with a new way of looking at my own continent. The Andes aren’t just mountains, they’re a reminder of Latin America’s strength and the pride of its people.