Category: Argentina

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

After some chats with friends and family, it seems that many of you have questions about what is happening on an everyday level. Basic things about life that are different here but part of what I do each day. So here is my attempt to describe one typical day of my life in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

The Hostel
From the moment I arrived in Argentina until now I have been living at a place called the Hostel-Inn Tango. A buyant and lively place, full of vivacious travellers with a desire to experience Buenos Aires, it often gets quite noisy at nights. This is where I enter, late one night.

Standing at the entrance of my hostel, I am worn out from the long walk home with my heavy side-bag of Spanish and other assorted books. Of the two heavy and narrow doors of the hostel, formed of thick glass and sculptured iron bars covering the outside, only one is ever opened. I push on the tiny brass button enveloped by its large brass plate mounted on the concrete pillar next to the door, signalling my presence. Then I wait. When I hear the familiar buzz of the door being released remotely I push hard swing it open. At this point the sound of music, distant before, floods out onto the street. I climb the two short steps and squeeze through the narrow doorway. I am home at last.

The music pumps out 24hrs a day, although strangely enough it gets louder as the night gets later, and noone seems to mind. Even at this hour of the night, well past midnight, many people are about. The two free internet computers, slow and painful to use, are always occupied and a few are constantly waiting in the nearby lounge for their turn to contact friends and family. Looking around I see others standing at the reception desk, chatting with the staff. More are standing and sitting, some are reading papers, others conversing. Below me is the sound of raucous laughter.

I descend down a steep set of stairs into the basement, where the laughter was coming from. Fighting my way through the smoke haze, past the barstools and tables littering one side of the place, I make it to the bar itself, now converted into a breakfast bench and kitchen. The music from upstairs, piped down here also is playing just as loudly. Those watching television compete with the noise by turning it up louder. Every conversation is either shouted or remains unheard. On the other side of the basement is an old pool table complete with chipped balls and faded markings. Watching people play half of their pool game on the floor helps me understand how the balls could get so chipped.

My Room
Although most are only here for a short time and move on quickly, I say hi to a few faces I recognise before heading for bed. Upon climbing out of the basement, I then turn to climb a large marble staircase in want of repair to my dorm on the second floor. This is my second room here. When I arrived I lived in a general dorm with other travellers, but after the first week I was moved to the more private staff dorm. I guess they figured that if I had stayed for that long I was now part of the furniture. As is often the case, when I reach my door, it is locked, so I return to reception for the key and labour back up the two floors to my room.

My room has three double bunks and a large balcony. Three rows of lockers and my bed stand in front of the balcony doors, blocking access. I am not too concerned since the airconditioner is always on, keeping the room at a steady cold temperature. Some days this is great, while others I really crave fresh air. I drop my bag onto my bed, dig out my locker key and pry open my battered locker. Into this locker goes my bag and everything in my pockets; change, wallet, camera, and phone. A quick brush of my teeth and a large suck of water from the tap and I am ready for bed.

Wearily throwing a blanket over my bed and turning down the newly washed sheets, I climb in, feeling my whole body sink happily into the soft mattress. Before I allow myself the luxury of sleep I check that my alarm is on and set, and before it can reach the tiled floor my eyes have signed out for the night. The rest of my body follows shortly afterwards.

The Morning
Morning is announced not by the birds, nor my alarm, but by the buses. My room sits just above a nearby bus stop and gushes of noise from every passing bus pour through the closed doors into my room from the street. Bus drivers here know only go and stop and the buses, already old in age, growl noisily in response to their demands. Sometimes, when the streets fill up with traffic, I am serenaded by every tone of horn imaginable as drivers try to move their line of traffic through the uncontrolled intersections. I often turn over to try for some extra sleep and this works at times, but from 6am it grows noisier and noisier until most times it is just not worth it. I rise somewhere between 7am and 8am.

Having resigned myself to rising, I drag myself from the tangle of my sheets and blanket and grab some stuff enroute for the shower. Turning on the “C” tap results in hot water, logical if you think in Spanish (Caliente means hot), which sometimes I don’t. The slightly sloped tiled floor and a fully functioning drain is all that keeps water from my shower from flowing out the door and down the passageway. It has worked fine as long as I don’t crank the water pressure up too much. I have also worked out that by moving the curtain-rod so the shower curtain touches the floor, a narrow stretch of floor remains dry. It does require swinging on the door at the end to get out with dry feet however.

Now feeling much more awake, I search for clean clothes but choices are limited. Filling my pockets with everything that went into my locker the night before, I retrieve my bag and stuff a bag full of dirty laundery and head out, greeting the person at the front desk on my way. I pay them for the night before, which should have been payed ahead, but I normally pay in bulk and then forget for a while. Then squeezing out of the front door, I enter the noise of the street, and turn right.

The Streets
The sidewalks, with each section owned and maintained by the building owner adjacent to it, are in random states of repair. Some sections of sidewalk are completely missing, while others have large and small holes in them. Most sections are mostly complete and a very few are actually in good condition. One such good section is just down the street from my hostel, on the same block, and every morning I walk past a lady washing it clean with soapy water.

Even fifteen minutes walk from the city centre people fill the streets, making it difficult to move fast, and it is unwise to stray from the sidewalks for very long. Traffic fills the roads and every crossing becomes a game of “Frogger⁽¹⁾“. Many of the intersections are uncontrolled and vehicles pass through them by flashing their lights and beeping their horn as they approach. Some drivers slow down.

On the way I stop at a Lavadero, dropping off my clothes to be washed. A full service laundery with ironing and dry-cleaning also available, I choose the cheapest service of wash and dry. It only takes a few hours to be completed, and will be waiting for me when I return in the evening. These places normally do not close until 8pm at night.

Public Transport
If I don’t feel like walking all the way, I will take to the subway. Descending into the tunnels of these old and noisy, window ventilated trains, I wait with only small crowds of people for the train to arrive. After all, who would be crazy enough to spend 80 centavos (cents) on a one station journey. Squeezing into the tightly packed carriages with the others is not so bad with only one station to travel, but it still gets very hot. Looking at those in suits I do not understand how they have not yet broken out into a sweat.

At the other end of the subway, I join in the rush of people vying for the two elevators. As we approach them, everyone starts forming a line of two abreast. Some rush up the stairs, pushing past others trying to descend, but most of us simply wait to reach the elevators. It is hot enough without trying to generate more heat.

Recently I have started taking the bus. The buses are somewhat random at times, and even being at the bus stop and raising my arm for the bus does not guarantee it will stop. When it does, I clambour aboard, steadying myself as the driver takes off. This is normally as soon as the last person is just inside the door. In the rush of stop-go down the street, it is a fumble to find my coins and insert them one at a time into the ticket machine. Should I have forgotten to tell the driver my fare (out of the two choices of 75 centavos and 80 centavos) then I am automatically charged the greater.

Knowing when to get off the bus requires knowledge of the streets, for which I am extremely grateful for all of my wanderings during the early weeks. In heavy traffic exiting the bus can occur anywhere near the stop, in the middle of the road. Most times the bus is full of hot, smelly people and it is a pleasure to get off. I normally only take the bus when I am late as it stops very close to my school. Other days I walk or take the train so that I can stop at Plaza de Mayo.

Plaza de Mayo
Surrounding Plaza de Mayo, arguably the most famous park in Argentina, is a wide multi-lane roundabout. How many lanes it actually is I cannot tell because it has been in repair since I arrived, with no surface left on the road face. I would estimate it at somewhere between six and eight lanes. Crossing without waiting for the lights takes some good Frogger⁽¹⁾ skills, but as I and many other Argentines have shown, it is highly possible.

On the inside of this roundabout lies a lovely area of parkland, criss-crossed with pathways. The widest follows down the middle of the park, with a tall pillar monument in the middle of the park. This is surrounded, in a pattern that forms a square, by four large fountains circled by bricked seats. The park is cut in half by a temporary steel mesh barrier just behind the monument, leaving two fountains on each side. The larger part, nearer the city heart, is much busier and has more trees and gardens. The other part faces the pink government house, Casa Rosada⁽²⁾. It is in the larger part that I stop each morning, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the business world starting up for the day, and relax in the morning sun.

In the time before classes begin, I settle down on a lovely green section of grass to read or study. Sometimes I watch people passing by, or perhaps they watch me. This time on my own, anonymous amongst the crowds, is a highly enjoyable way to spend my morning time before joining in with the throng and pushing my way through the crowds to reach my school.

Florida Street
My school is located on Florida Street, probably the busiest section of town. People fill the street from wall to wall. Although many journeys are not so fast, if I need to move through this place at any speed, it requires much weaving and anticpating of gaps. Even moving with the crowds is not that easy, with people and objects constantly getting in your way.

Making my way up the street toward my school, pamphlets appear before my eyes, some I take and others I ignore. Most find their way into the nearest bin. Vendors selling hotdogs, croissants, watches, clothing, or nick-knacks all fill the street limiting the area where crowds can move. As one of the crowd, I wait at the street for traffic to stop flowing. As a pedestrians, our goal is to cross the street. This is done when the traffic is reduced enough to make crossing mostly safe, and it does not always coincide with the crossing lights. Large crowds cross most roads as soon as the traffic flow slows, sometimes trapping cars at a green light. Drivers in these situations honk their horn and wait for the flow of people to subside.

A little further down Florida street and I have reached my school, but divert into the grocercy shop opposite it for breakfast. This is normally yoghurt mixed with the cereal in its lid. Buying a meal has slowly changed from an ordeal to a pleasure, especially since being able to understand what price they are telling me. Receipts are very rare here, except in tourist stores, and plastic bags for everything is very common, even for just one item. I constantly tell surprised people that I do not want the bag.

The Lifts
Breakfast secured, I dodge the wall of people to reach the building that houses my school. Walking through the shopping arcade on ground level that continues through to the next street. It is only a short distance through this, past the perfumery and shoe shop, before I reach the entrance for my building. Class is taught on the 8th floor, so most times I prefer to take the lift, although there are times when it can be faster to walk up the stairs.

Of the three lifts that service the 12 floors in the building, only two are ever normally used. Each of these are small, with a maximum load of four people making it very cosy. A small sign on the lift states that “in fear of death, only allow four people in this lift”. It is something that we tend to follow closely.

In addition to being small, the lifts are also very slow, and very old. They look to be made in the days that Noah needed to get all his animals down from Mt Arrarat after the flood. At each stop two tiny french style doors on the lift creep open with a slow stutter, creating a tension of uncertainty that this could be their last attempt as all eyes are drawn to their efforts.

It is for such a reason as these two lifts, decorated lavishly on the ground floor with elaborate brass surroundings, that I now wait in a growing line of people. A man operates the lifts for us, opening and closing the door of each as required. It has not occurred to him that these same styled doors operate unassisted on every other floor, although I presume his purpose is more to ensure the lifts are not overloaded during such a rush as I am currently in.

Should a person have a large object such as a pram, wheelchair, or ladder, then the third lift comes into play. This lift, on the other side of the stairs, is larger than the other two and can take more people each time, something it occasionally does during times of great demand. Fully manual, it has a rotary handle that is operated by a “lifty” who determines the floor level by the painted numbers we pass.

The Lessons
Upon reaching the 8th floor, I enter my school through a glass door into a narrow hallway. People fill the hall waiting for classes to start, requiring patience to reach my classroom. Each week the class size varies and this week there are three of us seated around the table. We greet each other and chat animatedly in English about what has happened since we last met. It is not long before our teacher arrives signalling the commencment of classes and cessation of English.

Once classes commence, we only speak in Spanish with the exception of points of distinct confusion. All explanations of meanings and misunderstandings are in Spanish. My first class was quite difficult, but now as I listen to my teacher, I can understand enough to make sense of what she says. Many words are still new to me and it is only by context that I believe I have understood, although sometimes I have been completely wrong.

Working from our book, compiled of photocopies of various texts, we follow the pattern of learning a new concept and then practising it. The exercises in the book include such things as completing phrases, writing passages, answering questions, reordering sentences, and linking phrases to make sense. During the afternoon, with our second teacher, we also listen to songs that are in our books, filling in the missing words. Our time is divided roughly equally between learning and practicing, although out of practice can come many questions.

Afternoons
When classes end, at 3pm, I head straight for Plaza de Mayo. Here I lie in the shade enjoying the cool of the gentle breeze. With my school books scattered around me, I spend the rest of the sunlit hours studying and working through my homework exercises. It is also pretty watching the golden rays of the sun on the pink Casa Rosada⁽²⁾ grow deeper in colour until they fade away into dusk. The relaxing setting of the park helps me concentrate on my work, although there are many things happening here and sometimes I allow myself the distraction.

The Walk Home
Once the sun sets it is around 6pm and my screaming stomach signals that it is time for dinner, so I gather up my stuff, throw my bag over my shoulder and reenter the high-paced surroundings of the city. Some nights I catch a train while others it is nice to walk. There are only so many ways I can walk home, and I have tried almost all of them by now wanting to see what was down each street.

Some days I take a taxi because it is easy. Simply stepping out onto the street and hailing one driving past. There are so many taxis that it is rare to wait more than a minute before finding a free one. The ride home costs somewhere around three to four pesos depending on traffic, and I often hand the driver a five peso note as I get out. Most drivers are extremely happy with this generous tip, and it is nice to make someone’s day.

Being tired tonight, I decide to walk the direct route home which takes me along the busy 8 lane Avenida Julio A. Roca. In the middle of this road is a statue of a horseman celebrating success, and I still have not worked out why roads make such good locations for statues here. At this time of day the foot traffic is not so bad and I meander my way down the wide sidewalk through scattered people and past many shops to my street, where I am now only several blocks from home.

Of the shops I passed, locutorios, where you can access the internet and make phone calls to anywhere in the world are very common. They are found on every block of the inner city and are still prolific elsewhere. Mini-shops that sell everything from emergency groceries to sweets, drinks, and smokes which are all jammed into a tiny space, are found even more frequently. Also everywhere, but on the sidewalks, are tall green cabinets up to three metres long that have their doors folded out during the day to become instant newspaper and magazine shops.

Once I turn into my street the sidewalk narrows to the width of two people, causing me to slow to the pace of those before me. Shops give way now to local businesses. Laverderias, Ferreterias or hardware stores, and other shops selling pumps, lawn mowers, chainsaws, or other equipment line the streets. Every now and then the locutorios and mini-shops also reappear.

Dinner Time
One block from home is my favourite restaurant. It is old, run-down, not entirely clean, poorly lit, cheap, run by a family, and local. Those last three reasons are why I like it, especially because it is local, and the food is good. Walking in, I tell the cook something like, “I want to eat food” using my limited vocabulary, and he will produce a menu to which I then randomly point, hoping that my new choice will be something that I like. Each time I go through this procedure, I consider going through the pains of translating things but then it is a little like Christmas when I don’t. So I am still pointing.

Generally my meals consist of meat and potatoes. Potatoes only come one way, boiled. I have asked for other ways as I have discovered names for them, but the chef tells me that this is not possible. So my meat, variations on steak, lamb, and chicken, comes with the staple potatoes, nothing more. No vegetables and no salads.

While my meal is being cooked I receive a bowl of small bread rolls, as I have in almost every other restaurant I have visited since arriving here. The difference with these bread rolls is that they are hard. Not hard so much as stale, but hard as in extremely stale, to the point that I often have a wrestling match there on the table as I try to pull off a bite sized piece from my selected bun. This often creates quite a mess for me to clean up when my meal arrives. Other restaurants also provide buns, but they are normally fresh. I like bread in any form, so I do not mind too much.

With the bread rolls comes two bottles. One contains an olive (or similar) oil, while the other contains vinegar. I have never seen other people use these to eat their bread rolls, but because these bottles are always associated with the rolls, I have presumed that they are to flavour the bread. So I use them for such. The vinegar is very useful for my little bread rocks, making them soft enough to eat without chipping a tooth, although it has taken me a while to get used to the taste of vinegar soaked bread. The oil does not soak into the bread and after dripping on myself a few times, I now stay clear of that one.

When my dinner arrives I discover that this time it is breaded steak, covered with melted cheese. I am one of only two patrons in the whole place. Inbetween bites, I stare up at soccer game that is invariably showing on the noisy television above the door. My enjoyment comes more from the reactions of the chef and his other patron at the fortunes and misfortunes of each team than from the game itself, and I pass the time either watching the game, them, or people as they pass outside.

Dinner completed, I pay the chef, who is the only person running the place at the moment, and cross the road to my favourite Internet access point, an Internet and Gaming shop. Although Internet is free at my hostel, the speed of the machines means that I cannot do very much with them, especially with my photos. So instead I prefer to pay one peso per hour to get high-speed access with a fast machine.

Internet Access
Arriving at the shop, I stand at the glass door, waiting for the door to be remotely opened. Once inside, I scan the 20 or so computers to see if one is free. Tonight I have to wait, and take a seat beside another guy who is also waiting. To pass the time I pull out my Spanish vocabulary book and start learning some new words, but it does not take too long before I am assigned a machine. I settle down in my bay to start emailing and sorting through my photos on the web.

Normally I limit myself to a certain amount of time such as one or two hours, but some times like tonight, I forget about the time and write away into the night. When I look at my watch it is already 11.30pm. When I leave at 12am, the shop is still packed with people.

Although today I spent my time on the Internet I often stay in the city and watch movies. They cost $7.50 (pesos) Thursday to Sunday and $4.50 other days. I have choosen Hollywood productions so far because they are in English with Spanish subtitles. This is good for learning Spanish, where watching the film is a process of trying to read the subtitles fast enough to catch a glimpse of the pictures. When I return home from the movies, it is often by taxi, as the walk is 20 minutes.

Today I am only one block from home, an easy walk.

Paper Grabbers
In the short distance home, I pass several people rummaging through someone else’s rubbish. Thorough in their job, these paper collectors search for any paper in the rubbish that can be recycled and add it to their collection. Once they have sifted through a complete pile of rubbish, they head for the next pile, leaving behind a mess of torn rubbish bags, scattered rubbish, and paper scraps too small to be worthwhile collecting. I can only assume that with so many people collecting paper they do not have time to be tidy.

The end result is a city of mess. Walking home sometimes requires diversions to avoid piles of rubbish scattered across the sidewalk, and reveals street after street of disarray. Somehow though, the mess must be cleaned up by teams of workers that continue through the night because by morning the place has been restored to looking clean again.

Home Again
Although it sounds late to return home by 12am or 2am, this is a common time for many people living in Buenos Aires, and not just tourists. Known for its vibrant night life, Buenos Aires shares a lot in common with Spain where the night is only starting at 2am. Most people prefer to sleep a little during the afternoon or early evening so they can go out at a later time, something that I often do also. Even very late at night the main city streets have just as many people as were there during peak hours.

On the street at 12am, I walking down the final stretch to home. This is the hardest part when I am feeling exhausted, when I can see my hostel and my legs don’t want to carry me anymore. Tonight I am feeling fine, although tired, and when I reach my hostel, I turn to face the glass doors, press the tiny brass button, and wait…

Home again.

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NOTES FROM TEXT
(1) Frogger the Game

Frogger is a very old arcade game with a frog that has to cross the road. You control the frog and have to hop forward between vehicles, trying to make it to the other side safely. Each time you make it to the other side you are then returned to try again but with more vehicles that are driving faster. (Play Frogger the game)

(2) Casa Rosada

The huge big pink building at one end of Plaza de Mayo that serves as the Presedential Palace. More information at:
* Plaza de Mayo information
* Presidencia de la Nacion Argentina (Casa Rosada in Spanish)
* Casa Rosa on Wikipedia

News, just in today…

Argentines protesting against banks again. Many armed and veiled picketers spent the day standing in front of offending banks. Police were present but only to protect the banks. Your online correspondent was present, taking photos and talking with some of those involved. Unfortunately, due to a lack of Spanish there will be no details of the event today. However, being close on hand, we are able to show you this photo that our correspondent was able to procure with much concern for his safety…

Yep, my friends, that was me today. After Spanish class I went for a wander… and as luck would have it I happened upon a peaceful, but simmering, picket in front of one of the banks. I have very little information about why or what… and even my English newspaper said little about this particular picket, although there were others taking place in the city at the same time, and in the same area. These other pickets were much more peaceful.

The one in the photo was the most significant. I stood amongst them and shot off a few photos before I was approached by an armed and veiled dude. He asked me a few questions and I was able to answer most of them with my little Spanish. Once he knew I was from Australia he turned out to be quite a nice chap – as much as any armed and veiled person can be a nice chap – and we began a conversation which I was hoping would tell me more about their motives.

At that point in time, someone opened a portal in the door of the bank and tried to come out. This took the attention of quite a few of the

picketers, who turned to face their opponent – on the other side of a small, but significant police line (in photo). My new found source thought it prudent to return to his defensive line, so I lost my story.

None-the-less, I still have my photos. There are more than this, but you will have to wait a little before you will see them. Since this event happened only hours ago, I thought you would be interested in seeing and hearing from the “unbiased correspondent on the Argentine front“… namely me!

Have a great day… and to those who are, thanks for praying for for me… now you can see why. 😀

Rob.

Everyone knows that there are a lot of costs invovled in learning something new. There is the time that you have to put toward learning, the materials or classes that you need to pay for to help you learn, and the mistakes on the way that may cost money, time, or bring humility.

My cost that I want to share with you now is that of a mistake that cost all three.

The Delivery
Because I am still taking many photos, I need to copy those that I have taken onto a CD-Rom every now and then so that I have more room for new ones. This process of copying them to a CD is normally very straight forward: I hand my memory card to a photo shop, they copy it to CD, and I return later to pick them both up.

After two weeks of learning, I am slowing starting to be able to communicate what I need using Spanish… which is a good thing when many people here do not have a good grasp of English. My use of Spanish has improved now to the point that I am feeling confident to communicate without the need for English. But I was unaware that my confidence was premature.

Entering the first photo shop, I ask how much it will be, walking out in shock at a price of $20 pesos. Too much I tell myself, and walk into the next shop where I was sure their price was much less. $25 pesos I was told. Even with my new grasp of the language allowing me to tell the guy it was too expensive and asking for a better price I was unable to budge the guy. He told me that he simply did not have the authority to change it.

I had all but given up until I saw one last shop and decided to ask there. Their price was a very reasonable $12 pesos. Satisfied that I had found the best place, I handed over my memory card and left for Plaza San Martín, to return later in the day.

The Return
My time in Plaza San Martín was lovely. Under the shade of the trees on the soft green grass reading my Spanish books was a very enjoyable way to pass the time and it was not long before I needed to return.

At the shop, the attendant handed me what seemed like four packets of printed photos. I was alarmed. Closer inspect revealed that it was actually four seperate CDs with proofsheets (lots of mini photos on one page) in their packet. That was much better. I was getting a good price at only $12 pesos for four CDs.

As I looked through my new CDs, the attendant was adding things up. Still speaking in Spanish, I told him that it was OK, because I was told it was only $12 pesos when I dropped it off. He said that this was correct, except it was $12 pesos per CD. I was in shock. They were about to charge me $48 pesos for one memory card transfer. And I had walked away from $20 pesos because it was too expensive.

The Experience
A hot debate ensued in Spanish about how my entire memory card could fit on just one CD, so why should they need to create four. He told me that their machine could only fit up to 120 photos per CD. I then told him that I was quoted only $12 pesos for this, not $48. It was somewhere around here that he interjected and asked if I fully understood Spanish.

Of course I did not FULLY understand Spanish, but I was pretty certain I was doing ok up until this point. In fact, I was feeling very proud of how well I had been able to order this job without any hesitation and I was thinking that my Spanish was getting much better. He asked me if English was OK. Reluctantly I allowed him to pick up the conversation in English.

He then told me, in very good English, that the other attendant that had served me told me clearly that it was $12 pesos per CD, and that they could only fit 120 photos on each CD. To this moment I still do not recall that attendant telling me anything about either a cost per CD, or a limit of photos on each CD. But then if I did, I would not have left my memory card there. So I was at a loss. How could I argue with this, considering that my Spanish was still in its infancy.

Feeling very disappointed in myself, and with my pride fully deflated, I handed over $50 pesos to the cashier. As I walked out, I told the two men present during my discussions that, “I have learned a lot from this experience, but it cost me a lot too.” They just smiled as I walked out the door with my tail between my legs and much wiser for the loss.

My main lesson though, was that this was one of many of THE HIDDEN COSTS OF LEARNING.

Hello to all of you, my friends. You are probably wondering what I have been up to since arriving in Buenos Aires. Well here is a quick look into my life over the last few days, and the city in which I am now living.

Study Mode
Right now I am in study mode and have not had a chance to check out the city of Buenos Aires. My classes start at 8am and go until 3pm, and with homework and study afterwards it leaves little to no time for extraneous activities. Not that I really mind though, because it is wonderful to know that I am starting to learn Spanish and will be able to speak it well after a few months. It is hard going right now with learning and remembering and studying. It is an ongoing process to coax my brain into doing what it doesn`t like.

Every day I wander down this one main road which leads to the famous Plaza de Mayo, then turn onto a shopping mall on Florida Street. Even in the mornings I have to fight my way through the crowds and over busy streets to get to my building. I then stand in line for two very old lifts that can hold only 4 people (5 at a push if everyone is light) to reach my classroom on the 8th floor. At lunch time and after class I repeat this lift routine, waiting to go down to buy some food. Classes have only 5 people in them so it is a great atmosphere for learning.

Costs
Virtually everything over here is cheap. Food costs about US$2 for a meal, and an expensive meal at a nice restaurant is around US$7. Clothes are cheap, and CDs work out at around US$10 for the latest ones. Of course finding one in English is not so easy, but they have them. I have not checked electronics yet so I do not know about that… but I have no need to buy anything like that anyway. Internet is available everywhere and costs US$0.33 per hour, so that suits me quite well.

Street Scene
Many things continually go on while I walk the streets. From people protesting the government’s method of dealing with the current financial crisis to very talented people busking with two guitars, singing opera, or even dancing the Tango. It is all very fascinating to stop and watch for a while. There are very young children playing piano-accordians also, busking for money, while their mother is on the other side of the street, begging. It is a bizarre scene.

Actually, every few metres on the street, someone is trying to give you something, or get something from you. Free magazines, flyers, leaflets, sales, specials, or whatever. In between these people are those reaching out for money. Children, mothers with babies in their arms, disabled, and cripples all have their cups out for people to drop coins into. Where there is a gap between all of this, the buskers have set up, drawing a crowd around them that forces foot traffic to funnel through narrow gaps, causing major slowdowns and bottlenecks. It is hard to know what to do at times with such an onslaught coming at you.

An Injured City
Many houses and shops that I walk past in this area of the city are closed or abandoned. The street and sidewalk surfaces suffer from a lack of attention, with rubble piled up in places, and great holes without protection. It is very important to know where you are walking. Most surfaces are uneven, and many lack tiles or their primary surface. It is most interesting to watch the crowds of peole as they move to dodge major holes. I have even seen half of a wooden shipping crate sticking out of a hole in the road where a manhole cover should have been. It makes for an interesting walk every time.

The Hidden La Boca
The more I walk, and the further I go, the more I see the wounds in the city that have been left from the collapse of their economy. I walked to La Boca today where I saw the pretty multi-coloured buildings that many tourists visit to enjoy. Here there is restaurants and coffee shops and music and dancing and everything looks wonderful on the surface. But I did not take a taxi or bus there, nor did I walk the tourist recommended route. Instead I walked down local streets, with houses that were falling apart, children playing with a ball on the road, men sitting in their doorways, and rubbish littering the sidewalks. I saw cars that should be abandoned and abandoned cars that should be crushed. This was the real side of La Boca.

Nearby, on my way back to Centro I followed the water edge only to be bombarded with more sights. Here the stench of the water was foul. Everywhere there was rubbish floating, forming clusters large enough to support plant life. Boats and barges, abandoned along the side had sunk to the shallow bottom, still poking their heads out of the water as they rot. Everything smelt bad here. The stench of stagnant waters, clogged with rubbish was everywhere.

Displaced People
I continued walking, now following underneath the enormous concrete structure of a major motorway. The shade it cast was a nice reprieve from such a hot day. As I walked, I realised that I had stumbled upon one of Buenos Aires’ favellas. That here, underneath the expanse of road above, were rickety and rough built buildings. Some were made from brick, but most were built from pieces of tin, not even resembling a house at times. Here the dispossesed people lived. Well, some of them. It was a very saddening sight, one that weighs heavily on the heart.

No Escape
Even in the heart of the financial district, equivalent to New York’s Wall Street, there was signs of decay. Many banks are walled up with iron and steel. Buildings have been left totally deserted. A plate covering 20mm thick mains power lines has been pulled off and left, and many similar plates too have been removed. Graffiti covers the walls of many buildings. Homeless camp out along the edges of the buildings. Nowhere has escaped.

Rubbish Scene
Rubbbish is everywhere in the streets. Bags, left out for collection, are mined by “the collectors” who seek out recyclable paper to resell, leaving a mess that blows around after they have gone. Some, having collected many bags of it, hover over their collection like a mother hen over her chicks, ensuring they are not pilfered by others. I have seen one cheating the scales by pouring a little water into their bag to increase the weight of the paper. Many of these people work in pairs, pushing home-made carts around the streets, loaded to twice their height with plastic garbage bags. They work day and night, although more are seen at night.

A Sad Sight
Today I saw something pitiful while in a taxi. There was a line of men all standing at the back of a garbage truck, reaching desperately into it. I assumed they were clutching for paper or similar resalable goods, but my taxi driver informed me otherwise. It was right outside a restaurant and the truck had just taken collection of the restaurant’s rubbish. In this was much food, and it was this food that the desperate and starved men were clutching desperately for. Ironically, rich and well dressed people, tourists and locals alike, wandered past this scene hardly aware of the commotion.

I will stop here in my descriptions as I am well aware that I have only painted the harsh reality of the city right now. This is what it is really like. There is always much more to a place than that which we see on the surface. Each place is the same as this, it is just that the wounds of Buenos Aires are open and festering and the government has yet to place a bandage over them to hide them from view.

The Good Side
The city itself is actually very beautiful and has lots of wonderful things to commend it. Most people I speak to find only good words to describe this place. It is full of wonderful and friendly people, and has all the services of a large city. There are wonderful green parks, and the water is clean and drinkable. Most people have found employment somewhere and are able to pay there way, and in the main areas most shops are open for business. It is a city like any other, and a very beautiful city too.

The Myth of Beauty
Now, let me dispel some myths for you too. Ever since leaving for Argentina, I have heard that the women (and men) over here are very beautiful. Since I have been here for a while, let me inform you that I have seen quite a number of beautiful women. Many have nice bodies and wear lovely clothes, but this is not the overall situation. As with every city, there will always be some beautiful women (and men), however there are many more that fall into the average category like you and me (well, I speak for myself anyway). So it really is just another city.

Well, that is enough writing for now. If you have any questions, or want to know more about something then please write me and I will reply as best as I can.

Roberto (as they call me here). 😀