Category: Buenos Aires

It was quite late in the night anyway when the three of us left. We were in a very low-class area of the city and were heading to the night markets in another similar area. I was with two girls, Vicky and Clara from LIFE Argentina, and we had just finished one of the birthday parties that we routinely hold for the kids in these areas.

Getting There
It was not safe enough to walk from the party to the bus stop, so we took a taxi. Taxis in this place are normal cars. Well, not exactly normal, since it was falling apart. Rust and dents enveloped the whole thing and it sounded like it would stop at the next corner. Our conversations were only in Spanish from this point on, because there was a danger of being robbed should we be heard to speak English.

We paid a very cheap fare to the driver as we piled out near the bus stop. From here we crossed over a railway line, only metres from the train waiting at the station, and after asking directions, found our way to the bus stop.

The bus was extremely old and rattled and shook as we journeyed over poorly maintained roads toward our destination. There was no choice but to stand in this vehicle that was heavily packed with passengers. As we near our destination, the huge iron roofed buildings housing the markets came into view, and then we stopped. In the middle of nowhere.

Outside the bus, in the darkness of night, we found ourselves in line and moving at the directions of a forceful man. Before us were dozens of old and beaten up cars, some already pulling out of their parking spots, filled with people. It was a scene like the start of a great race where the drivers first run to their cars.

There was an urgency to all we did in this place, and the three of us quickly filled the back seat of one of the mobile wrecks. If I had thought the first car we rode in was old and rough, then it had been a luxury model compared to this one. Rust was so prolific in this car that certain areas were totally missing. The boot did not close and neither did my door, so I ended up holding it in place.

Our journey, with two people sharing the one front seat, was only a short distance compared to how far we had come. We passed through some tough looking neighbourhoods and over some very rough roads before we reached our destination. Throughout the journey my entertainment was the poor people stuffed tightly into the van before us. I could see their faces pushed against the back windows as they bounced and rattled over the roads.

River Crossing
The car park we stopped at was just across a river from the markets. The lights of a police car nearby were like a beacon in the darkness surrounding us. We passed them as we joined the growing line of people waiting to cross the river over a narrow footbridge, long since past its use-by-date. The steel structures of the bridge showed advanced signs of fatigue and heavy rusting, and the flooring rose up to meet our feet in places. With no space between us all, it seemed there were too many people for it to support.

In the darkness, illuminated only by the lights of the markets, we often held each other, struggling to remain together. I was thankful for the few breaks and openings in the wire mesh surrounding our caged walkway, and noted the nearest points for escape should the bridge collapse into the water below.

Beside us was a train track, which people were also walking across since the line for our walkway was so long and slow. This would have been fine if a train was not approaching. A loud horn like that of a ship sounded long blasts, indicating the impending doom of those who remained on the tracks.

Those on the tracks started scattering, some running back the way they had come. Others tried to forge ahead to the other side, but their time was too short. A large opening in our caged walkway allowed those remaining to jump through in front of us. Each one showing obvious signs of relief on their face as they escaped the imminent danger.

The Markets
The moment we got off the footbridge, we entered the markets. Stalls everywhere, packed so tight that only narrow corridors of dust remained for hundreds of people to squeeze through. This was not the main markets however, and after passing through the bus area, also littered with stalls, we finally reached the main markets.

It was hard to move through all of the people in this place, and pushing and shoving was the norm. I thought it was filled to capacity, but after shopping for several hours I realised how wrong I was. People pushed with no concern for consequences, and at times we would be pushed off balance by someone trying to barge through the crowds.

Each stall in the main markets were formed from little square booths of iron and wire, and sold every type of clothing imaginable. Shoes, shirts, pants, jackets, sweaters, and underwear. Toys, baby clothes and even food was for sale here. I even saw parrots, snakes and other animals on offer. And everything was cheap.

Shopping
People had come from all over the country to buy from these markets. Many people however, had come here to buy for their shop. They would pull or push huge trolleys filled with bags of clothing. It was almost miraculous that they could move through such an inundation of people. These purchased goods were to be resold for much higher prices back at their shops.

Each of us had our own agenda for what we wanted to purchase. Vicky, who had been here before, was our guide through the chaos. She returned a few items she had bought last time and bought some clothes for herself and others as gifts.

Both girls were looking for some new jeans, wanting to try them on before buying them. There were no dressing rooms here, so in preparation they had worn running pants underneath their clothes. I liked their idea, so I too tried on my pants before buying them, arguing that my long underwear was somewhat similar to the girls’ running pants. The embarrassment of the girl in the stall and the number of looks I received during this process told me that apparently this was not a very common process. The pants fit however, so I bought them.

Shopping with girls is always a slower process than with guys. If I like something I buy it. Simple and quick. The girls, and more power to them, have to decide not only if they like it, but whether they have too many of that particular colour, if it is too similar to their friends’ clothes, what other clothes will go with this new potential item, and many other decisions that all slow the process down to a snails pace.

This time I did not mind that it was so slow, because it was a great opportunity to listen to the Spanish as they spoke. During this time I learned many new words relating specifically to shopping, clothes, and colours. It was quite enlightening, and in the end I walked out with a pair of pants, two shirts and a sweater, all of which I had tried on to be sure they fit me.

Return Home
Shopping completed, Vicky calls her mum to reaffirm that we have not been mugged and we head off toward the bus stop to go home. It is freezing cold outside as we make our way along the narrow edge of the road. There is no sidewalk for us, and the cars moving past only add to our dangers. Although the carparks are safe from cars, muggers from the surrounding slums often lie in wait for the unwary. So we persist along the road.

After a number of conversations we discover the location of our bus stop. It is an un-posted corner. Here we wait, staring at a darkened car park in one direction and a slum only metres away in the other. Between them both sits the road we had walked, choked with cars, buses and trucks as people head home from the markets.

Our journey home takes us through many poorly lit and very tough looking neighbourhoods and over some very rough roads. We are all tired now and after a change of buses we are glad to make it back home. I leave the girls at their place and walk the forty minutes it takes to get back to my hostel.

It was a shopping trip to remember. The night markets.

NOTE: This took place near the beginning of May, 2004, and was a lot of fun as well as being quite dangerous. I did not get to take any photos at all during the time because of the danger it posed both to me and to the girls I was with. There were many amazing sights however, not the least of them being seeing people hanging off the side and out of the doors of a dilapidated old bus as it drove past us. Perhaps there will be an opportunity to return and take photos, but even if not, the memories will remain with me for a long time.

Well, I have moved again. It seems to be that every few weeks I find another place to live.

Now I am living in one of the nicer suburbs of Buenos Aires, in a hostel that also has a Spanish school in it. Once again I have managed to cut my costs of living yet again.

My new place is called Archie’s Hostel, in Azcuénaga Street, Recoleta. A newly opened hostel with many bright colours and friendly staff, it is a breath of fresh air compared with the historic hotel I was living in before.

I do miss being so close to the centre of town though, but there are many wonderful things around here to discover now too.

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.]

Every day. Day in and day out. Wherever you walk. There are people. Blind people. Handicapped people. Amputees. Single mums. Everywhere. All are needy people. All stand to the side of the road. Next to the tall buildings. In the shadow of giants.

The Encounter
Very late one night as I was returning home, I saw one of these people sitting just outside the entry to my hotel. A young mother in a sloppy green t-shirt, many times unwashed, sat on a limited blanket shared between her and her four year old son. He was curled up tight on his tiny share of the blanket, sleeping as soundly as one can when in the midst of a very noise and brightly lit street.

She was leaning up against a cold tiled wall, the limp form of an exhausted two year old girl sleeping soundly in her arms. She was jingling a plastic cup containing a few measly coins, looking at nothing in particular as people walked on past, pretending not to notice.

I did notice though, so I stopped. I knelt down, and through my poor Spanish, I started talking with this lady. What pursued was an interesting insight into her life and the life of many people on the streets. It was a look into the systems of government and lack of government in Argentina, and a growing understanding of the needs that litter this country.

The Seasons
Rose (not her real name) had been on the streets for just on a year now. Summer, when the nights are warm and many tourists are in the city, things are quite good for them. Winter however is much harder. Lots of rain and freezing days with colder nights.

What does Rose do during winter? “The same thing” she says, “only we wear a lot more clothes.” “The hardest thing about winter” Rose continues, “is that this little one is asthmatic and it plays up during winter” and with that she looks to the little bundle of joy held in her arms. Medicine then becomes yet another burden of cost.

The Support
Rose had a husband at one point, but he had run away from the responsibility and left her with the children. She could not find any work though she had tried. She explained to me that there are very few jobs that a woman can do in Argentina while she has dependent children who need attention.

Of her family, Rose’s mother died four years ago, her father having also run away when Rose was just a young child. Apparently, Rose tells me, she has nine brothers and sisters, but since they are all half-brothers and half-sisters she has never once met them and has no idea who they are. All progenies of her wayward father.

So what of government support for people in these situations? Rose is quick to point out that although in Australia there are things like this, in Argentina the government does not offer any support at all. This means that for Rose, there is only one way to get money to live.

The Need
So here she is on the streets trying to get enough money to live. From late morning until somewhere around three thirty in the early hours of the morning, she jangles her cup of coins looking to the compassion of the people to help her survive. No bank account, not many clothes save those she can carry around with her, and very few friends upon which to lean upon.

About three months ago she found some form of accommodation in a deserted old bank building a few blocks from the city. This she shares with many other homeless people. Living on the streets in the city centre is not very dangerous at all, I am told, although some regional places are to be avoided. The policemen ignore her, which is good while she is begging, but becomes a dilemma should she need help.

The Person
Living a life on the streets, where people try to avoid you or ignore you, would make many people hard. Rose tells of many with whom she stays, how they abuse alcohol and drugs because of the sorrow of their hearts. Yet as I talked with Rose, I could see she was not bitter inside.

Rose’s gentle and open face revealed a person not willing to let circumstances affect her. She had willingly told me about her life and those things happening around her. Sometimes she even smiled about some of them.

She continues to talk with me, telling me about her young son, still asleep on his corner of the blanket. “He will be going to school soon,” she says with some obvious relief in her voice. Soon was meaning in the next year or so, but we had been talking about how he was coping with life on the street. I gathered that by the way she said this that it will be good from him. Cost was not an issue either because the schooling is free in Argentina. Perhaps it will also give her an opportunity to work.

The Money
So how much does it take to keep a family of three alive each day? “Oh,” said Rose, “$15 pesos each day just for accommodation. And food… well. You know food, it is such a changing thing. It really depends on what you want or need at the time. You cannot eat cheap foods all the time. It is just not good for you.”

I estimated that on a light day Rose would need close to thirty pesos in total, and ask, “Do you make that much each day?” She thinks about it a little, “Some days I make more, but most of the time… no.” And then she hastens to add, “But it works out.”

The Gift
I glanced at my watch. We had been talking for almost an hour. With the night fading quickly, I thanked Rose and got up to leave. I was very aware that Rose had not begrudged me any of the time of our conversation, even though this was time needed to recive further money.

Throughout our conversation, from the time I stopped to talk, I had been feeling that I needed to give Rose $20 pesos. Now this was a large amount, even for me, and so I held back during the entire conversation. Every time I considered giving her something I was always confronted with seeing the same amount.

In my heart I only wanted to give five, or at most ten pesos, but the larger amount would not leave my eyes. So, not knowing why so much was needed, I pulled out twenty pesos and gave this to Rose. She was very grateful.

Then, not knowing how to part, I said “thank you,” and left.

The Reason
At 3am in the morning it started raining. A massive thunderstorm came directly over the city, pouring down torrents of rain. The streets quickly filled up with deep puddles of water, and every drain was working overtime to direct the waters out to the sea.

I woke up. Lying there watching the room light up with every flash of lightning, I thought about Rose and her children. I thought about the money I had given her. Was this money just what she needed at this point in time? Was it God that had prompted me to give it? It certainly seemed like it. Was Rose and her children now somewhere safe?

The Result
These questions and more remain unanswered, but would I see Rose again, I should like to ask her. Until then I am happy to assume. I assume that God had prompted me to give this amount. I assume that this amount was what she needed for that night. I assume that one day I may find out.

Rose. Only one of many who live… in the shadow of giants.

Well it is true… I have now been here for almost one month. 27 days to be exact. What have I done over this time? What will I be doing next? Has anything gone wrong? What has happened about meeting this guy? Have I seen much of Argentina yet? All these questions I hope to answer for you in the following paragraphs.

What have I done over this time?
What have I done over the course of four weeks in Buenos Aires (locally know as Baires)? The most succinct answer would be that I have been studying Spanish all this time. And it would be completely true.

The very day that I arrived, I wandered into town and booked myself into the next course in Spanish, starting the next day. Actually it had already started, so I slotted in two days late and continued on with the course. I have been there ever since, every week day from 9am to 3pm.

In the mornings I normally sleep until it is time to go to school. In the afternoons I spend the afternoon until dark doing my homework and studying in the parks of Plaza de Mayo, or Plaza San Martín, both located in the heart of the city.

At night I watch movies, have visited YWAM, use the Internet, sleep, study more, and wander the streets of the city looking at all of the interesting shops and places here and still trying to make sense of it all.

Weekends usually are a chance for some more sleep (can you see I either really love sleep or don’t get enough of it during the week), time in the parks again reading my books and doing more study, and just aimless wanderings around the city.

Today, A Typical Saturday
As an example of what I do on weekends, today I had intended to wander out through Recoleta to the cemetery and nearby parks that sound really pretty. But first I went shopping for some things that I had been putting off, which took me a couple of hours. Since I had never shopped for these items before I needed to be sure I wasn’t paying too much for them… which I was in some instances. Then, as I shopped I discovered a photography exhibition which I absolutely just had to see. It was fantastic. Right next to this exhibition was a Salvador Dali exhibition, who is one of my favourite artists, so I had to stop there also.

By then it was too late to go to the cemetery and I headed to Plaza San Martín instead. What should I find there but another photo exhibition on large stands weaving throughout the park. Huge photos displayed many different places and people throughout the world, as seen from the air. It was very different and extremely interesting, and I joined the heavy crowds in trying to gain a viewing space of the photos. After feasting my eyes, I lay on the grass reading one of my newly acquired Spanish books (with electronic dictionary in hand) until it was dark.

A local shopping centre provided dinner and allowed me to discuss with my phone company why I cannot send and receive text messages. Apparently it should be possible, so I will be pursuing this^(*). After that I went and saw the movie “El Pez Grande (The Big Fish)” which kept me entertained for a couple of hours as I read the Spanish subtitles as fast as possible, trying to understand it all, and after this I am now here on the internet, writing to you. That was my day.

Am I learning anything?
So after all of these weeks of Spanish, am I learning anything? Well yes and no. I am certainly learning much and am able to read things now and understand much of what I am reading. I can hear and understand about half of what is said too, but in speaking I am not so fluent and often come to a grinding halt trying to think of the word or phrase to use to explain my thoughts. Still, I continue to try and am slowly seeing improvements.

What will I be doing next?
For now, it will be much of the same. More study. More wanderings. More emails. And making more friends. Since I am going to be living in this Spanish speaking country, it is imperative that I learn the language. So this remains my goal for as long as I am still in Baires (Buenos Aires).

Has anything gone wrong?
Everything has gone right actually. If you are referring to my timing for arriving here and meeting this guy (see below) then it is all going well. There have been a number of different things that have happened on the way to confirm to me that this is where and what I should be doing right now, and I feel very comfortable with this too, which is a good indication also. So all is very well right for now and I am looking forward to meeting this guy.

What has happened about meeting this guy?
Glad you asked that. Now you may or may not know, I am expecting to meet up with a guy here. He is someone that I have never met before in my life nor do I know through any other circumstance. The actual timing of when I meet up with him I am not yet sure, but that I WILL meet up with him I am absolutely certain. So now all I do is sit back, keep learning my Spanish and wait. The time will come when this happens, and I will be sure to let you know as soon as it does.

Have I seen much of Argentina yet?
Not really. Studying so much leaves little of the day to do much else, and I have not really cared to look around too far yet. After so much touring during my world travels I have been quite content to settle back into a daily routine. My feet are slowly starting to grow itchy now though, and I am now keen to get out and see what this amazing city has in the way of sights, so I will be heading out more soon.

I have just purchased a Spanish kids book on tourist sights in Baires, and since it is for kids, I find it easier to read for me too. This has now become my guide for what to see and how to get there. There is much to see of this place, and I look forward to sharing some of my experiences with you as they happen.

Until then, take care.
Regards, Rob.

^(*) Mobile Phone Txting
For those of you with mobile phones, try texting (and/or calling) me on this number instead:

+5411 154-676-731 (54=Argentina, 11=Bs.As, 154676731=my number)

…and let me know how it goes.

[EDITED: this number is no longer valid, but was left here for the sake of completeness. Please check the contact page for the current phone number].

The Arrival – things done
Well here I am in the middle of Buenos Aires. Landed, and stranded. Well not quite. At the airport I found a Hostel that is close enough to everything in town and have booked myself in for a few nights. From here I found out information on language courses in Spanish and will be heading there in the morning for an evaluation before jumping straight into classes at 10am. My classes are 4hrs per day for 2wks. Intensive training.

That sorted, I stopped by and purchased a GSM SIM card for my mobile phone. If this does not make sense to you then simply know that I have now got a phone number based in Argentina. Trouble is that I don’t know enough Spanish to add credit to it yet. If you want to try and txt me the number is +55 1154 676731 (I think) [NB: This number was eventually stolen]. The lines were so large I had to wait 1.5hrs to see a consultant.

The next thing in my list of things was to look around the port area of Buenos Aires… except I came across one small hitch. There is not a port area in Buenos Aires, at least not for ships and large cargo vessels. That is what I had in mind. There is however a whole section of the city called Puerto Madero, meaning Wood Port. This is a lovely harborside area that has many shops and cafés and is full of life. Perhaps this is the place…

Returning home to the street of my hostel, I find a nice place for dinner. It ends up a family-run restaurant with an old, run-down feel about the place. I had seen a few people in it earlier so considered it worth stopping at. It turns out to be a very casual affair, run by mother the waitress, father the chef, and their son who was on a break while I was there. Although the place looked and felt dirty, the love between mum and her son and their kind expressions told me that this was going to be a good place. I was right. Dinner consisted of two pieces of cooked steak, potatoes, bread rolls, and a large bottle of beer, and came to a grand total of $3 USD ($11 pesos).

I was the last customer in and when I had finished my meal they started closing up shop. Now of the beer that I had intended to enjoy, only one glass was gone, so there was plenty left over in the bottle. It seemed right to offer it to the family running the place, of which they were very thankful. We chatted for a little bit, which only served to highlight how little Spanish I know. I did managed to tell them that I had arrived today and was staying for a long time and about to take Spanish lessons tomorrow. They were very excited for me and before I left, wrote down their name and phone number and gave it to me. It looks like I have found some new friends.

And now I am in the internet place down the road from my hostel, writing to you guys during my sleep time. Tomorrow I start Spanish.

The Place – thoughts
Arriving in Buenos Aires I could easily see why people love this place. It has a feel about it of cosmopolitan Europe meets casual South America. The buildings reflect this feel too with an eclectic mix of modern skyscrapers with really old and ornate heritage buildings. All of this is just in the centre of town with much more yet to explore in surrounding areas.

The first thing that I notice about this place is how safe it is. Even in the darker back streets it is much safer than Rio was, although there are many people scraping through the paper trash trying to earn a living by sorting out the recyclable paper and selling it by weight. There are dangerous areas, and I have already found some of those… seems that I know where to walk to end up in those areas… but most of it is pretty good. Mind you the police and security guards alike all wear bullet-proof vests which does make me wonder how safe it really is.

The next thing I see is how South American it still is. People are at every traffic light peddling anything from icecreams to notepads for money, or even calling on the pity of drivers by carrying a baby in their arms from car to car begging for coins. It is sad to see some of this behaviour around, especially knowing that some of it is a direct result of the economical collapse.

Taxis, with their yellow and black cars, fill every street. It is not unusual to find ten or more taxis in just one area… or even at a set of traffic lights. Buses too, like their taxi counterparts, are prolific and come in all colours, shapes, sizes, and ages with some needing to be given to a museum. Even the new ones look battered because of the effects of the crazy drivers and rough roads. Some of the roads around the center of the city have huge bumps and holes in them, making the noisy traffic even louder, and bringing premature age to every car passing over them.

Out in the suburbs there are many houses that have rooftop decks for people to get their suntan or dry their clothes, and many are very close together or multi-level places. Streets here too are shaded by trees overhanging the roads wherever they can fit. People drive with little care for the road rules and squeeze their cars into any gap that appears so that they fit many more abreast than the road markings delineate.

As it is with driving, so it is with walking, and when crossing the road, the rule is that you just keep walking at the same pace so the drivers know how to dodge you. It is a harrowing experience to have cars pouring around both sides of you at high speeds. There are crossings and crossing signs which are a must at some of the larger and busier streets, but during peak hour it is very acceptable to simply weave through the snarled traffic.

The streets in the city centre where I am staying are all narrow, with a little footpath. It is a good idea to use this pathway though as getting run over on the road is a real possibility. Many of the footpaths are cobblestoned or tiled, and are showing significant signs of wear. Tiles missing, piles of rubble growing in a corner, even large holes to avoid are all scattered across the walking pathway, making it harder to keep a fast pace. Perhaps this is why so many of the people here keep to an idle walking pace.

The temperature is warm in the shade and hot in the sun. It seems to be around 24 C (68 F) and is very comfortable to be out in, although air conditioning still brings a welcoming cool breeze. With light pants and a t-shirt I am very comfortable as I wander around town.

I think I am going to like this place.

I decided to expand my horizons and cross the excessively wide 9th of July Avenue into the northern part of Buenos Aires. Never did I expect that visiting Plaza Congresso would teach me so much.

A Short Walk
Be warned. This is a story about nothing in particular. But it IS about my experiences in a place, during a small part of a day. That day was Friday. That place is Buenos Aires. It is now my home.

The Decision
I decided to expand my horizons and cross the excessively wide 9th of July Avenue into the northern part of Buenos Aires. Since arriving here, this had become my point of limitation. I had only ever stayed within the Centro district, lying to the south of this road. It occurred to me that now was a good time to get adventurous. So I walked the four blocks past this road to Plaza Congresso.

Crossing Avenida 9 de Julio requires a high-speed walk, jogging pace, or two changes of lights to make it to the other side. Just getting to the middle involves crossing over 3 lanes to reach the side parkways and another 8 lanes to the middle curbing which provides little respite from the traffic. Then there is a further 8 lanes to the other side parkway, and an easy 3 lanes to finally reach the other side. I chose the high-speed walk, only just making it to the parkway on the other side of the 16 lane centre section.

Plaza Congresso is a very political location, and by way of the large and straight road Avenida de Mayo, is linked directly to the other highly political park, Plaza de Mayo. In these two parks can be found the beginning or ending of any good protest. I had already spent considerable time in Plaza de Mayo so I thought it would be good to see the “other side”.

The Park
Arriving at Plaza Congresso revealed a large park, the size of three city blocks, covered in various patches of pebbles, grass, and bushes. Each of these were separated elegantly by very low iron fences. On both sides of the park, huge trees provided shade to the many bench seats below them. Everywhere people are relaxing, on the grass or the seats. Some stand and chat, others are walking dogs, and some are just wandering aimlessly through the many pathways scattered through the park. The whole place has a gentle, relaxed feel to it.

And then I saw the huge statue down the end. As I approached the statue, its base as wide as the park, with a magnificent fountain before it of the same width, the scars of the wars fought here became increasingly evident.

Large chunks torn off the bronze statues in the fountain from which water should have poured, empty ponds on the upper levels, and graffiti over every part that could be reached. The graffiti all over this grand statue was full of anger, hurt and venom toward the Argentine government. The mood of it all was one of despair, having lost already but trying to warn others.

To the front of the statue, for I had approached from behind, stood the magnificent Congress building. It showed no signs of life. Every door was firmly closed, yet it was still in use.

Below me, standing in defiance of the way things still are, were pitched two tents, surrounded by banners. They stood there as an ongoing protest against the missing children. This was the protest of The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo.

It changed the entire feel of the park. Suddenly I was in a place of war. A location where division and anger had been poured out. A place very different to what it had first appeared. Surpisingly though, the whole scene still held onto the undertones of beauty it had radiated before, with the lower and largest section of the fountain still in full operation.

The Subway
Leaving this surreal scene, I took my first ride on the subway to get home. Having never used the subte before, I assumed it would be like most other cities – find a hole in the ground, descend, buy a ticket and ride. It was like that here too… almost.

Once safely standing on my platform, used ticket in hand, I waited for the train to arrive. It did, from the wrong direction. No problems I thought, simply find the tunnel to the other side. But there was no tunnel to the other side. I needed to exit the subway and enter the other side. But I had already used my ticket.

Naturally my ticket does not work when I reach the other platform, so I try to swap it at the counter. Fortunately the guy at the counter realises I have come from the other platform and guides me through a side gate to my platform. Then I wait.

When the train arrives, it is old. Really old. I find myself sitting in an authentic original rickety wooden carriage, complete with manual doors and opened windows. It turns out that this particular subway line is the only one of its type that still runs the original carriages since it was first opened.

Looking at my map, I saw that I needed to travel two stations to get to my transfer point. My map was wrong. It was too late when I realisd that I had travelled too far. Now I couldn’t return without buying a new ticket. There was one more place I could transfer, so I decided to continue. As we pulled into the last station on the track, I realised my mistake. It was no wonder so many people have left the train at the last station. That was my transfer point that I had missed again.

At the end of my journey, I decided to eat a burger before walking home. While I ate, I noticed the train I had just arrived on leaving again. This time it was going in the other direction. I quickly boarded the next train back to my transfer station where I meandered my way through the tunnels to the other line and my station. Once there, some very old fashioned mechanical staircases (now known as escalators) made with wooden treads carried me up to the street level. My feet carried me the rest of the way home.

Visiting Plaza Congresso and journeying on the subway was only a small journey in such a large city. The pain of the people and the age of equipment within this mighty city were revealed. Sometimes it is not the size of the journey that matters but the discovery that takes place as a result of it. I had discovered.

References:
* Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo
* Basic Information and Photos of Argentina