SAVE THE BABIES
The tyre was still rolling past us down the deserted street when the police collared them. Pulled their car round in a U, and waded out of it the way fat men do. Three boys, non-specific adolescent age. Mara pulled me over to a good spot right next to them to watch. I was appalled- in England we usually just emulate the badly traumatised and deeply sociopathic; edging by looking slanted up through furtive eyes to decipher what's happening. 'Are we just going to watch!' I asked with the thrill of the fairground. 'We have to support them,' she said. Two more people had marched up and taken position as well, the dreadlocked woman standing defiant arms folded. I realised we weren't watching but taking part.
Bizarre really, for me anyway. I'm usually on the side of the adults in England, despite barely being one myself. Can that be true? After all my youth work? But in Argentina with its tender wounds of military junta and highly corrupt police force, we had to be there to look out for the kids.
The Officer McClusky figure sidled up to 'You cannot mess with me' dreadlocked woman and attempted to justify himself.
'Did you see what happened?'
'I just got here.'
'They were rolling a tyre down the road, it could have caused an accident.'
'They're just children, leave them alone.'
Four more police cars appeared, presumably out of boredom. Mara called out 'Hey - they're just kids playing!' A warning and the kids were sent on their way through the chaos of the squadron cars. Before they went they turned to us and saluted. 'Ciao chicos!' People power against the draconian security forces. I felt like a Paris student in 1968, it was breathtaking.
END OF THE WORLD AND SUPERPANCHO WONDERLAND
In its favour it has jazz chequered flooring, an ingenious mural showing a continuation of the room into a parlour filled with sophisticated cocktail-drinking silhouettes, and a free pool table. Against it, the bathrooms are an enduring symbol of urban squalor, the kitchen a theme park for cockroaches where the cutlery drawer typically contains just one dirty teaspoon and there is no cosy lounge area. On the first day I arrived with a trio of Ozzie girls I'd met in Santiago, I intended to leave the hostel at once.
I had a nap at 5pm and woke up at midnight to the sound of severe racousness echoing in the gymhall acoustics of Downstairs. Drawn like a dung beetle to a pile of steaming ordure, I happened down to find an exuberant and chatty mélange of Israelis, French-Canadians, Chileans, the inevitable English and many more. Before long I'd been introduced to the local 24 hour shop where decent wine can be bought for 50 English pence and large bottles of beer for 80p. Soon after that I brought down my guitar and unwittingly lit a powder keg of enthusiasm. I decided to stay at the End of the World for a while.
Another night I found myself at a festival of Balkan music at the Armenian Institute, and then all of a sudden (in the immortal words of Jonathan Richman) I was dancing in a lesbian bar . We emerged into the sunshine and dined extravagantly on Superpancho hotdogs (effectively free at 1 peso 25 each) and beer at our local 24h pancho house. Opera Bay is a superclub built to emulate the Sydney Opera House, with a wide open portion overlooking the spectacular mouth of the estuary, betoothed with sparkling skyscrapers. And when Susannah the brazileña tried to make me understand the word 'tile' in Portuguese as we walked down the street, I turned to look at her mime on a wall. I began to walk again and collided forcefully with a large metal box. For a few days one cheek was permanently rouged and my nose resembled that of Robert de Niro in Raging Bull.
The hostel is situated in San Telmo, a neighbourhood of Buenos Aires close to Downtown whose mention inspires a look of disgust on the faces of middle aged Jewish women (naturally I am beginning to insinuate myself into the network). It is an historic area with narrow cobbled streets and good bars peeking out from behind enormous piles of festering rubbish.
SANTIAGO IN A BLUR
I had flown straight from New Zealand to Santiago, Chile. I found a converted mansion in which to stay, called the Casa Roja. I played much guitar with large groups of Argentians, and met a lovely Uruguaya called Evelyn with a killer wrist on the ping pong table. 4 hours Spanish lessons with an española called Ahinoa ['Hey what's that girl's name?' 'Ahinoa.' 'Yes, I know that's why I asked you.' etc] fed me some much hungered for culinary vocabulary and pulled me through some juicy prepositions.
The culture shock was thrumming on the streets. Not only had I jumped from Western to Latino, from 1st world to 3rd, but from depopulated NZ with its vistas and mountains and inalienable relationship with the land, to a big dirty South American city with curtains of smog and millions of people. I loved it, of course. Everywhere were people lounging and chatting. Everywhere were couples really going for it in the street. Everywhere were stupendously gorgeous and exotic looking women. I could live with this, I decided.
EL ACENTO PORTEÑO
I am learning Spanish, but inevitably the Buenos Aires bastard of the Argentine variant. 'LL' and 'Y' are pronounced 'SH' instead of 'Y' in Spain-Spanish, and there's a different groovy informal 'you' form. It's quite a sexy little spin off, also used in Montevideo, as Evelyn the Uruguaya taught me. The pronunciation is Italianate and highly dramatic. All sorts of plosive squirting noises are employed as conversational enhancers. Taxi drivers are hilarious. An affectionate BA greeting:
¡Che boludo! - Hey asshole! (use with discretion)
OVERTURES OF GREASE AND HANDSLAPS
I am putting out mucilaginous tentacles to find food. I have put up signs offering lecciones privadas con profesor recibido en la universidad de Cambridge. In life I have barely started to abuse my Educational Privilege. I attended a meeting of the Jewish gay, lesbian and transexual club to find contacts. The room was full of men ranging from upper youth to lower old age. I brought Itai and Jeanette from my hostel; Jeanette was thrilled to be the only female, and not Jewish at that. We mingled and watched 3 fairly arresting Israeli short films on gay themes. In one a scorned woman fakes a coma to stop her lover leaving the country. Another had a large-eared teenage boy exploring his sexuality by orchestrating meetings between other men on his computer. I chatted voraciously, working the room with an empanada in one hand and a plastic cup of diet coke in the other. Received a few potential leads. Then I attended Conversation Club at Hillel House, Jewish student hangout and pulled out a bunch of flyers. I searched myself for shame and found none.
BA OVERVIEW
There is a glut of dogs in prime pedigree, being walked ten at a time by dog walkers who are some of the highest paid workers in the city. I saw someone tie up a bundle of dogs outside his flat and go inside, presumably for a nap or to watch TV for a few hours. Cushy work. An enormous muzzled hound cocked his head at me to say 'I could do this man's work, and you'd only have to pay me marrowbone.' Or he might have been assessing my nutritional value.
I have made good friends round the pool table. I am platonically sharing a room with a crazy Portia from Blackpool. There are some people, like the camp and ebullient Pablo & Ivan double act from Chile, who appear to live at the hostel indefinitely. I might have sunk into that state of being, at least for now. My boss (for my 4-6 hours teaching a week) is a loquacious entity named Sandy 'La Teacher', who talked continuously through my interview without inhalation only to say after an hour 'so you didn't ask about money' not that I hadn't been waiting for a nanosecond pause to introduce the subject.
The coffee is excellent, and the unbridled carnivorousness of the nation is only matched by how eagerly they all smoke in every space, public, private, children and old people welcome. I experienced an election, when the whole city was closed down. My private lessons were a good opportunity to grill a variety of people about politics. The broad leftist only-credible-option Peron party got in again, but there were significant gains from a pro-business magnate called Macri.
Graffiti is more political. Music is more political. People have more style and finesse, even those working in McDonalds. People my age are forced by financial necessity to live either with their parents or in bunkbedded dorms. But food and drink is cheap and plentiful, and music crashes into the smog refracted sunlight of each new day.
