One Sunday I woke up and thought I would take a stroll. Never did I expect that it would take me nine hours. My initial thought was to wander down to the docks of the main port of Buenos Aires and see what was there. Being a Sunday I found out that there was not many people here at all. I also discovered that it was a long long way between each dock. Too late too far By the time I was ready to return home, I was too far from anywhere to do it. Any passing taxi was carrying passengers to or from the nearby airport, and there were no buses to be seen. So I was left with the choice of returning the way in which I had come or continuing on, but I am ahead of myself. Let me regress. Avenida 9º Julio On a clear, sunny morning I left my hotel in jeans and t-shirt, unaware it would be such a hot day. My destination was the widest road in the world, Avenida 9º Julio. I had never seen how it started, or ended, so I went for a walk to see. After walking the other way along this busy road many times, it seemed out of place to see so few cars using it. I supposed that I had risen before many Porteños on this Sunday morning and considered this the reason for the dribble of cars that waited at each set of lights. In any case the street was very empty indeed. Flanked on both sides by large strips of green, I found fountains and statues all along my walk. I had never noticed them on other sections before. They were both big and small, significant and diminished in size, and each had its own story to tell. Large fences around some declared their need for protection, although they were all showing the damage of abuse. Fountains not flowing with water anymore told of a city still in need. Signs and plaques stating their purpose for being were missing, their identity stolen. Others needed such protection as to be electrified. Although interesting, the stories told were not all lovely. A Distraction Or Two Nearing the end of the road I discover a building out of place. The French Consulate protruded out onto the road. Well, at least it could not be any closer. It stood alone. It was for this reason that I noticed Plaza Cataluña. Nestled along one side of the French Consulate, Plaza Cataluña was a very small park. It was not very pretty either. Never-the-less, a few people were there giving their dogs an outing and soaking up the sun on the little amount of grass that could be found. It was not this however that caught my interest in this park. In the middle of the park was a huge light post. As we all know, light posts do not need to be huge to support the light at the top. That is why I was so interested. A huge light post with a very wide base. It drew me closer, searching for a reason. As I approached I saw taps, and bowls. It was then that I realised that this was a drinking fountain. I had never seen anything like it before. A donation from Barcelona city, Spain. I turned to see a small, triangular shaped plaza with a lovely fountain and a monument to Carlos Pellegrini, president of Argentina 1846-1906. Around me were a number of consulates, mostly in buildings of lovely architecture, adorned in beautiful brass fittings. It seemed right to pause for a while and simply admire all that I was seeing, but I did have an agenda and before long I found my way back to the now diminishing street of Avenida 9º Julio. Overly concerned with my distractions, I had not noticed that I was already at the end of the road. It continued on, but as an expressway elevated above the city below. From here I would have to find another road. Metal Monsters I headed down into the city streets and discovered another huge road, Avenida Libertador. This road carries vehicles Northward along its 12 lanes starting near Retiro. As I near Retiro, which is the main station for all trains heading north, I discover a museum of scrap-metal art. Creatures line the side of a long building, scattered along a dirt track. Inside is even more, at a cost, but outside there is more than enough to satisfy me. As I walk, a crocodile snarls at me with its vicious pointed iron teeth, painted in blood red. Further along a T-Rex towers over me, and even though I can see through all of the rods, plates, pipes, and discs that make up his form, it takes little imagination to see him come alive with fury. Aeroplanes that will never fly, trucks that would never drive, and a dog without a voice, all created from unwanted scraps. A man with a creative imagination, an endless source of scrap metals, and a lot of time. A fascinating walk through junk. Sizing Up The Port From here it was only a short way to the port. Well, the first gate actually, and there were six more to come. Now I had seen this on the map, but for some reason I thought things were closer than I was about to discover. Gate One At the first gate I walked right up to the guards and asked them about this place how it was used. It turns out that each person I asked only knew about their particular section. No-one had an overview of the whole port, and on a day that was getting very hot, most were more interested in remaining in the shade than answering my questions. It turns out that the first gate is specifically for buses and trucks. It was hard to understand all that was said, but it sounded like they were loaded onto and off the ships from this point. I can only assume that it would be to take them over to Uruguay. Gates Two and Three Realising that I was not going to get any further conversation out of the guards, I turned and headed for the next two docks. Twenty minutes of walking took me alongside a Naval Barracks, with signs outlawing pedestrians after dark. A further twenty minutes and I was still wandering down the long street beside the port. It was around here that I started to get a feel for the size of this place. The road I was wandering was shadowed by large trees all along the sidewalk. The shade from these trees missed the sidewalk, falling onto the road instead, so this is where I walked, trying to stay cool. It was lucky for me that each side of the road was as wide as four lanes. I knew the cars would not mind if there was room for both of us. There was no second gate. I considered that perhaps this had been seconded by the Navy. At the third gate however, I found only two people here. One was in an office and didn't want to know me, and the other was a guard that was busy pouring himself a mate, a customary drink in Argentina. He looked up from his task and said very little, except that he didn't know anything about this place in as few words. Unperturbed, I wandered onward. Reaching The End Once my shield of trees were left behind, the heat of the day became ever so obvious to me. Beads of sweat streamed down my face and my clothes grew heavy as they soaked it up. It seemed to take much longer to reach the next gates as I hunted for patches of shade along the way. Gates Four and Five When I reached the next gates I discovered both four and five off the same point. The guards here seemed quite bemused that I would wander through such heat to ask them anything at all. Fancy seeing a tourist out here on a Sunday, and at midday too. They happily answered my questions, and I learned that this was the area for shipping containers, although it was obvious by looking. Gate Six In wandering to the next gate, I thought I had gotten lost. The road took a turn away from the water before heading back again. When I finally reached the sixth dock, it was a long road in to meet the security guards at their gate. Two very official men in Port Authority suits, after I had asked my questions, they started asking me lots of questions. A Case for ID Probably the most significant question was whether I had identification on me. The guard asking this alluded strongly to my passport. I told him that I did not have that with me, and it proved to be a sticking point. Throughout the rest of our conversations he continually returned to this question of ID. I told him that in Australia I didn't need to carry identification on me and so I was not carrying my passport with me. I did not tell him about any other forms of ID that I had on me. It seemed a mute point when he was constantly asking to see a passport. He seemed to get over this eventually, and I was able to make my leave. Ignoring Dangers After these last gates, I somehow thought there would be another. I walked a long way, along the lonely hot road as it hugged the waterside. Grain houses and storage facilities that were used at one time to load and unload ships lined the other side of the road. All of them now were deserted and abandoned, some with clothes lines strung up along them as signs of new inhabitants. Rusted conveyor belts, stiffened old cranes and dilapidated refueling pontoons half immersed in the water all pointed to long periods of disuse. Sand banks all along the edge of the dock now supported many of these structures. Signs along the waterside declared all objects unsafe and warned against swimming in this area. Pollution, rubbish, and the muddy waters would chase most people away from here anyway. It was surprising then when I saw children climbing on one of these half submerged pontoons. Jumping and swimming in the murky muddy waters around it, I first heard their shrill voices crying out with joy. The water looked deep, even such a short distance from the sand bank, and the children did not seem to notice the faint green scum floating on the surface. Ships backed onto the dock's edge, their rusting hulks held securely by the sands supporting them. Unable to voyage again, I assumed they were ghosts of what once was, but then I saw the people. Inside the cabins was a home with lights and running water. Decorations declaring life provided a stark contrast against the dead and rotting carcasses of each ship. A rubbish truck on the side of the road had a crowd of mostly children to the side of it. As I walked I watched, amazed, as almost 20 people climb into the cabin. As I continued past it I saw that the windscreen had been smashed in two places by a brick. It was then that I also discovered the children had climbed into the back section, probably where the rubbish would normally have been stored. Beaten and battered, the truck hardly looked fit to drive. Further along the sand banks grew wider, reaching further out into the dock. A couple of men were at the edge of this sand, standing in the sun, with their fishing rods firmly grasped. The further I walked the more fishermen I saw. While the men fished, the families played on the brown sands, or toyed with the waters at the edge. Poisoned waters, rotting ships, decaying buildings. Peoples lives were linked to all of this. By the time I reached the end I was hot and weary from the unrelenting sun, and I just wanted refuge. A Forced Decision After walking for over four hours I felt worn out. It was just then that I saw the oasis of refuge that I needed. A service station. Thankful for the cool air conditioning and a bottle of cold water to quench my thirst, I recuperated for a while before I felt ready to continue. Had I been given the choice, now would have been a great time to return home and rest, but I did not seem to have many choices. I was too far from transport to do anything but walk. All taxis out this way were carrying passengers on their way to or from the local airport, and there were no buses to be seen. With little choice but to retrace my steps home or continue, I decided to continue, heading toward some parks that I was planning on seeing some day anyway. ...to be continued [ED: The next part was never finished.]