Those of you who have been to Buenos Aires might wonder at the things that I write because they do not equate with what you have seen. If I had only been here a month or two weeks or ten days, and if I had not had a specific task to do, around which I could plan activities but which constrained what those activities could be, I might have written a very different accounting of my time. For example, now looking back at what I wrote about Montevideo—at some time I'd like to amend my reflections because I was only in my first month of living around the Rio Plate. And it hadn't yet been explained to me that fear will often keep people from trying to communicate with someone in a language not their own, even if theirs is dominant. Fear of that which you don't know creates barriers. I think I am motivated more by the fear of complacency. And I believe that there are always alternatives.
Which is why when I reached a physical barrier the other day while walking, I assumed I could walk my way around it because I have a good mental picture of the map of relevant parts of barrios in my head. Absolutely no sense of north, south, east or west unless I've learned which way the numbers go in any given place, but I always believe that I can follow the map. Now in the first place I was walking from Plaza Italia to my part of Belgrano because I'm a walker and it seemed possible since I'd ridden the route by bus. But I hadn't realized that at one point the street goes under a commuter train's tracks via a commuter unfriendly tunnel. Kind of a strange neighborhood—I was following a main street full of shops and restaurants and everything else, and this was a bit empty. I could have taken the subte that happened to be at the train tracks, but I really wanted to do this which was walk Santa Fe through its transformation to Cabildo. So I walked parallel to the tracks, looking at every juncture whether or not the perpendicular street went through. I went about a dozen blocks, dusk laying in, before I found a street that would take me in the right other direction. I walked around an odd space that had concertina wire surrounding part of it, and had the sense of a residential institutional building. Ahead of me was a young couple, the man carrying a child on his shoulders, and it comforted me to think that walking down these dark deserted streets was not totally idiotic. What was, or is, or will continue to be is the fact that two of my three pieces of footwear have wooden bottoms…as in clogs, and even boots with clog bottoms. I realized as I walked on the naturally uneven pavement, hearing nothing but my footsteps clip clopping, that I was in no position to run if I had to. A young girl came by, walking even faster than I, and together we walked into the street to avoid a clotted group of four or five adolescent boys. Eventually we all hit a main lighted street which I had never heard of and I was in a neighborhood I'd never seen except on a map (which, when I looked at it, provided the information that I had passed by a mental health institution). I walked ten blocks, and crossed the tracks as a pedestrian. There is a system, to slow you down maybe?, where you walk into a two turn maze of red and white striped metal. Initially I followed the rules every time until the process seemed ridiculously easy to circumvent, without any reason not to. Finally a few blocks after than I came to Cabildo because the line between it and Santa Fe had curved. By the time I reached my new home I had been on the road for four hours. Everyone—Else, Romi, Vicky and her fiancé Nacho, could not fathom why I would have wanted to walk in the first place, but that's not the only thing that makes them wonder.
In this place I've heard more about the robberies of locals. The first, that Else had had two Rolexes stolen, says something about the state of things before the drop of the peso. Both robberies were at knife point. Vicky, who works, oddly to me, for Best Buy, GPS and mp3 player division (as in you call with questions and your US call is routed to her in Buenos Aires if you press the right buttons), was physically assaulted one night as she left work and entered the subte. A man pinned her against the wall, took her purse, then punched her hard enough to break her nose, then threw the purse at her as she started to scream. The ticket seller would not let her into her booth, and so she waited until the police arrived but Nacho got there first. A second time she was talking on a cell phone and a woman came up to her with a piece of broken glass. She told Vicky that she knew she could replace it so hand it over. Vicky tells me that there is a documentary, showing some of the people who make their living robbing others, and in the interviews they complain about how the downturn in the economy has affected their livelihood. Vicky is more than a little paranoid about walking alone in the dark and while it is justified, she is going to have to do it eventually since she will start a rotation as a resident next year. I've put a lot into this paragraph, but I want the nature of desperation that affects some people to come out. Yes I have met some tourists who have been robbed, but now I personally know three, and just the other day Nacho was assaulted (but managed to get away with only a button popping off of his shirt when the assailant held on to him hard). It's just the way it is here and everywhere. But you might not see this on your vacation, or think that it is only unsuspecting visitors who are targeted. This is a way of life. To me, alertness and not fear is the cloak to wear each day or night. I had the thought that the reason that a few of my students at Los Pibes relieved me of small items was the same sense that I could afford to part with whatever. And everything you have might be a target item for someone else so either be willing to part with it or don't have it.
But on the brighter side and only something you would see if you were here now or four years from now or four years ago is the national fervor that accompanies Argentina's participation in the World Cup. The Bicentenario was nothing—it was history. This is NOW, futbol coached by Argentina's Diego Maradona who is a paragon, who has songs written to him, for which a saying—'The hand of Maradona'—was coined. Blue and white bunting is everywhere. Argentinean flags fly, restaurants and stores all have some nod to the 'cup of the world'. Dogs—because it is winter here (ahem) and they need protection from the elements—wear blue and white doggie sweaters. Everyone I know is filling out a bracket with scores of each game. A requirement of my class on Tuesday was that I (and her other private students) stay and watch the match between Argentina and Greece. Frivolity because they were playing an inferior team turned to stunned silence as the first half ended in a tie. Then taunting against the length of the Greek names, a nervous tension that perhaps something bad was going to happen and then GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!
People hugged and kissed and all was again right with the world. And when the second goal was scored, I felt as if I could walk out of the place without getting mobbed. Even my teacher, at one point, had said that perhaps the reason Argentina had not scored was that *I* was there, the one and only suspect Greek.
Then for the entire rest of the day people whooped and yelled and honked their horns and everyone walked around jubilant. We don't yet do such a thing in our country so it seems remarkable and almost patriotic. The 'cup of the world' is the prize and everyone is behind the team and the coach and the country. There is a pecking order of support in terms of other teams—the first line goes to other South American countries, especially Uruguay and Paraguay. Brazil is very good, so no one gets that excited when they win, and Chile is controversial because they did not support Argentina during the Malvinian War. And that same war is the reason that the Argentines would rather face the British than the US so that they can beat them soundly. I will not write anything more about this War because I am certain to get this wrong and offend my new friends.
Things are a little unclear for me in terms of what I am going to do after next week. I need to think about what has happened and why and then perhaps I will write about it. In many ways this whatever class living is more difficult for me to assimilate than was the almost marginalized (but really not) neighborhoods I initially experienced. I'll take pictures, and perhaps in so doing will figure it out.
For now—watch futbol—our team (as in US) while not spectacular has still won its bracket. And anytime you see Argentina or Uruguay play, think of me. Chau.
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