CHANGE OF PERSONNEL
So Ana Cláudia went back to Brasil taking her maracas and her irrepressible loveliness with her and Pablo vanished in the night in the general direction of Ecuador with his tranquil charm and ipod and the Americans Pat & Tony with whom I had enjoyed the puppet party (c.f. blogpost Tengo un cocodrilo) turned up on our doorstep at 9am clutching their rucksacks, considerably ravaged from two months working as farm labourers and hitching round Argentina, much like a latter day Lenny and George. Patrick set about baking bread and Tony began a serious spell of TV watching that would last some days. He was like a starving man given free license in the Harrods Food Hall.
We have now succeeded in capturing Chilean Italo, who has long hair and a flute, and a German photographer called Katia. We maintain the even gender balance and the musical aspect. We will also improve Spanish listening comprehension markedley because the Chilean accent is gloopy and impenetrable.
ACCENTS
I can now recognise the Columbian accent - a melifluous walk in long grass. The Ecuadorian is low and twisted, and the Chilean like trying to have a staring match on the teacups at the funfair. Mexicans mocking, and Argentines like Italians. Sometimes I am told I have an Italian accent, which I hold as an improvement.
HUMAN FETCH AND ANIMAL PIROPOS
Reading in the Plaza Republico de México surrounded by the leafy and succulent area of Belgrano with its preponderance of large houses and Renault Clios, I slowly became aware of a bizarre scene in front of me: a man was playing fetch with his son. In my life I have seen fetch played with perhaps 500 dogs of various breeds, a handful of cats and even with one particularly talented rabbit. But I have never before seen it played with a human being. Nevertheless the boy, who appeared to be around 12 years of age, seemed to be having a whale of a time. He was running backwards and forwards collecting the stick with a big eager grin plastered on his face. I wondered if he was retarded. His panting adrenaline-fuelled smile made me wish I exercised occasionally, in the same nebulous way one might wish to travel to other galaxies. I read my book, occasionally glancing up at the incongruous tableau. Does treating your son like a Labrador amount to child cruelty? Perhaps it would do us all some good to be more In Touch with our Animal Side.
Argentine men are well in touch with their animal side, especially in the Buenos Aires summer. The season is a hot brick on your forehead, a stroll through the desert in a suit of armor, a smoggy well of screeching days and relentless nights. While waiting for the storm to break, people stagger around flustered and gasping, hot blooded and exuding pheromones. Argentine men are renowned for being pushy at the best of times, but at the height of the summer the flow of piropos is like a flood of treacle in the streets.
I am being slowly initiated into the world of the Piropo. A piropo is a chat-up line. Points given for originality, humor and persistence. Piropos can be used anywhere, but are most usually fired at women in the street. Thick skin is a necessity for the piropero. Unless he is a virtuoso, 95% of women will walk on by. But the 5% who smile make it all worthwhile.
In San Telmo’s buzzing Plaza Dorrego, Josh and I sat on a low wall playing chess and practicing piropos. He mostly stuck with his old favorite:
How I would bite you like a grandpa with no teeth.
This engendered quite a few laughs, especially because Argentine chicas just don’t expect piropos from gringos. I tried a lyrical number:
How your eyes mix with my soul.
The sublime poetry was lost on my audience. At this point Francis arrived. Have you ever seen dust motes in a streak of sunlight? They continue swirling around until they find a surface to cling to. Establish a base in Plaza Dorrego, and all the motes collect around you. Francis was first. He is from Angola and speaks 5 languages. His style of piropo was rather aggressive:
Hola! Hola! Hola! Hola! Hola! Hola!
This usually resulted in a disturbed look and a quickening of pace. More chess was played, more beer was drunk and before we knew it we were surrounded by a mass of Argentines, Chileans, Brazilians and Dutch. Every group of females that walked by was subjected to a cacophonic torrent of piropos, ranging from the simplicity of Francis’ approach to the postmodern:
How I would love to know your favorite piropo.
In England the only men who give comments to girls in the street are madmen and construction workers. Yet in Buenos Aires all men do it, from builders to businessmen. And how do the women feel about it? That depends on the tone and quality of the piropo. If done with a smile, everything can be acceptable. Even playing fetch with a 12 year old boy.
After sitting awhile in the Belgrano plaza I finally realized the father and son weren’t playing fetch at all. They were actually having a competition to see who could throw the stick the farthest. This looks very similar to fetch when you only see the turns of one person. And thus is it possible that a dog playing fetch is just curious to see how far his owner can throw a stick. Give those animals some credit.
