Bicentenary

All is well here after a chaotic bicentenary weekend. The majority of the 9 de Julio has been blocked since this time last week and remains so, due to the mounting and subsequent dismounting of vast stages and television screens. The journey to and from work has been a nightmare as the poorly organised and under-developed public transport system took an unprecedented hit, more akin to a London commute than Buenos Aires is used to. Buses decided to take alternative routes without informing passengers, and if you caught one of those buses and tried to get on and/or remonstrate with the driver, you took your life in your hands. In short, the city wasn't really ready for the big week, and it showed.

The national government had a very public spat over the last week or so regarding the bicentennial celebrations with the city government, or Macri, to be more specific. Macri made a disparaging remark about Nestor, so CFK announced she wouldn't be attending the showpiece re-opening of the Teatro Colón on Monday night because Macri would be there; he responded with a polite but strongly worded letter lamenting the absence of the President; she responded with another letter claiming that she didn't want to cause Macri any 'mortificación personal' through her presence; he immediately responded with another letter etc etc etc. Childish politics, completely out of step with the celebratory context. I then learned that Macri and the anti-government supporters (eg the city of Buenos Aires) would be holding a closing ceremony in a cathedral in the city on the 25th, while Cristina would be holding hers in Lujan. It would have been interesting to see her inciting hatred against people like me LIVE, but I couldn’t.

However, I did make trips to the 9 de Julio on the evening of the 24th and the afternoon of the 25th. More than anything, it was a serious, once-in-a-lifetime event stretched over four days and five nights, and it would have been churlish not to have attended at least part of it. There was a huge parade on the 23rd, which my friend Trevor and his Argentine girlfriend Tami went to, and several massive open-air concerts were planned, but, this being Argentina, as soon as the parade had just passed its peak, the heavens opened and didn't stop thundering from about 4 pm til 7 am the following day. The 24th saw the opening of the Colón after three years of renovations, and I went with a few friends, all of them shorter than I, to see the open air dancing events and light shows. The 9 de Julio was heaving, and we had to push quite far in in order to get an elusive half-decent view for my companions, angering many patriotic souls by putting myself between them and their event. In the end, we could see little, arrived too late, and were left wandering the streets with all the other lost souls; eventually, I walked home.

The 25th was similar. We arrived in the Plaza de Mayo earlier and found it filled with a multitude of political groups and movements, each with their flags and all espousing the 'Viva Patria! Viva!' refrain with various tinges of anti-wealthy/anti-British sentiments. We slid away at some point and made our way to the 9 de Julio to see the stands: each province had provided a stand which encapsulated everything that was unique about their province. The idea was great, but the execution was poor: each stand had a queue of about 100 people waiting to get in, and spilled into the masses of people trudging up the road and pushing into each other. We couldn't even get close to a single one, so we tried the food stalls on the other side of the street, and found most of them to be shut, selling rubbish products or rammed with people. Once in this melee, we couldn't get out without fighting against the current. The current didn't like that one bit and fought back. Eventually we managed to find a way out through the backstreets.

As we floated our way through the backstreets near the 9 de Julio, crowds of people drifted towards and around us clutching flags and marching in the direction we had just come. Their faces were etched with jubilation and determination, and they scowled at us tall whiteys as we passed. It was dreamlike. We obviously weren't supposed to be there, and people treated us as if we weren't there. A famous sindicalista walking in front of us was repeatedly stopped and saluted by the marching workers, but when we got close to him we could hear he was whingeing about the traffic to his companion. We found our way onto a packed subte train and made good our escape to the calm of Palermo.

The celebrations revealed something to me. In many senses, this was a celebration of what it really means to be Argentine: beyond the cultural exports of tango and folklore, football and Che Guevara, beef and wine, being Argentine means crying when you hear the national anthem, is about rejoicing in revolutions and overthrow, and inspiring deep-rooted passion and anger about injustices meted out on an unfortunate population. In this sense, I have never felt as un-Argentine as I did yesterday. Sure, I know most of the words to the national anthem. I love watching them play football. I opine freely about Argentine politics, culture, history, and literature, and claim a deeper knowledge than most about the country. I have a passport and a DNI. But I am not Argentine. The people on the streets yesterday feel something that I can only grasp at, pretend to. I know it, they know it, and when they look at me they know that I do not belong.

On Sunday night I was talking to some middle/upper-middle class Argentines, and they were horrified and disgusted by the amount of money that had been spent on the celebration which could have gone into much more worthy and needy causes, and also by the political grandstanding and manipulation by the ruling classes. Yesterday as I stood in the Plaza de Mayo waiting for my friends and watching flag-bearing groups march into the space, I thought how impressive it was to see so many young people who are politically motivated. My next thought was how naive I had been, and how manipulative and manipulated these people are. Then the Malvinas veterans marched by, there was a standing ovation, and I suddenly felt very British, well-dressed and alone at the wrong time. When we were in the crush on the 9 de Julio, an Argentine asked me whether I was an 'ingles bueno' or an 'ingles trucho' - the ingleses truchos have their own passports and separate queues at airports because 'they think they're special', apparently. Much of the celebration was really quite uncomfortable for me, and I'm glad it's over. Last night saw an incredible light show projected onto the Cabildo, and an official dinner with Lula, Chavez, Morales & Co. all in attendance. Cristina danced. Macri didn't. I was watching the final episode ever of Lost, all nationalism already a distant memory.

Apart from the football, of course. Monday saw the thrashing of Canada by Argentina at the same time as England tepidly dismissed Mexico, but at least England was playing a real team that had qualified for the World Cup while Argentina where basically playing against part-timers. The best part of the Argentina performance was the introduction to the national anthem, played quite brilliantly on the harmonica by an Argentine rock singer. Unless they get their act together, this Argentina team is going to have a harsh awakening in the World Cup, which will do nobody any good.

I think that's probably enough for now.

Taxi: Scientology

Barely one week later, taking a taxi on exactly the same route, I had an experience that would have been sinister if it weren’t so ridiculous. I often get into taxis without looking at them, as cars mean almost nothing to me, although bumper dents and scrapes are normally a good clear indicator to avoid. If I’d taken greater notice of the car, then I probably wouldn’t have got in. It was vintage, not in the classic car sense but in the ‘really-old-about-to-fall-to-bits’ sense. It’s true that the way that cars look from the outside say a lot about the owner, but it’s also true that in Buenos Aires almost none of the drivers actually own their taxis. Anyway, in I got.

No seatbelts, always a good sign. Not much of a door handle either. The little face precariously perched at just the right height peered through the rearview mirror at me. He was a owl-like, with thick glasses and a high-pitched voice; I think he was sitting on the Yellow Pages and that he had blocks attached to his shoes so he could reach the pedals.

“Eh? Where you going?” I gave him the address and he looked totally blank, whereupon I explained how to get there. He blinked a few times, smiled in satisfaction, and on we went.

He explained that he had only been driving for a few weeks, that he had been a victim of the financial crisis and its effect on US companies: he had worked as an IT technician, able to rid systems of bugs in a jiffy (or so he claimed), employed by a secretive US firm. Or he couldn’t remember their name. Anyway, one weekend they disappeared. On Friday, he’d bid them all goodnight and have a nice etc, and on Monday they had vanished without a trace. Recounting the tale, he lifted a gnarled, clenched fist in rage, but didn’t have the energy or the anger to pull it off.

I nodded in sympathy, and we drove on, him muttering about the fairness of life, the lack of justice in this world, and his grasp of the English language in the same breath. The English phrases would rise from his mire of disillusionment like bubbles in a viscous pool:

“something unintelligible stupid bankers something something scum of the world VERY NICE WEATHER, NO? something angry miserable souls WOULD YOU LIKE SOME TEA…” etc etc.

Finally, forced to stop by a traffic light, he asked me if I would like some computer assistance. I made polite noises, but he heard none of them, producing a flyer with his contact details, and then surprised me by asking, as he handed over the small square paper:

“Have you got any disorders? Any bad dreams, anxiety, anger issues?”

I blanked, with no idea what to say. He continued.

“Because if you have, I can get rid of them too. I’m a Scientologist, you see.”
I was left flabbergasted. Scientologist? I hadn’t been expecting that. I looked down at the paper he had just put in my hand and, sure enough, there it was. An entire list of his services. The top half of the square talked about his IT prowess and offered a 15% discount on your first ‘hard-drive purge’, while the entirety of the bottom half focused on his ability to cure all ailments through his Scientologist methods. Text space had obviously been an issue for the flyer, and the two halves had merged into each other somewhat, so the 15% off deal could equally be for ‘getting rid of unpleasant memories’ as well as ‘hard-drive purging’.

The rest of the taxi journey involved a spirited defence of Scientology, about how it wasn’t a cult but rather was a psychological practice essential for curing deep-rooted mental ailments. Or something. He started reeling off success cases as we neared home. The cases themselves were pretty harrowing, but having managed to get to a stage where I couldn’t take anything he said seriously, it was hard to fully engage with the dark tales he recounted me with. Not wishing to hurt his feelings, I got out one block early and wished him well in his multifaceted career before collapsing in incredulous giggles.

Taxi: Gardel

Taxi drivers in Buenos Aires are a truly unique breed. It is often hard to sympathise with them because many feel that they charge extortionate prices and drive recklessly, but that is to ignore the thankless task of driving around the streets of this fair city, often in very similar patterns, over extended periods of times (10-hour shifts are a minimum), the majority earning money for the owners of their cars, rather than for themselves. Their only consistent company is the radio. Some of them react to this lifestyle by becoming withdrawn and dour, unwilling to talk to passengers and insulating themselves from the outside world on which they depend; others, however, take the opposite approach, believing that conversation is not only vital but necessary. For them, it is a means by which to keep sane; personally, I am happy to oblige.

Recently, however, I had two journeys which made me reconsider my willingness to enter into conversation with the drivers of these taxis. The journeys were on the same route, leaving my personal trainer, at the same time of day, within two days of each other. I shall attempt to recreate them as faithfully as possible below:

1. Gardel
Me: [gently shutting taxi passenger door and collapsing into sweaty mess on back seat] What a day.
Driver: Difficult day?
Me: Very.
Driver: Have you just been to the gym?
Me: Yes. It’s what I do to relax. I go to work, get frustrated, go to gym, burn out my aggression and leave calm.
Driver: I see. [Pause] I listen to music.
Me: To calm down?
Driver: Yes. Do you like music?
Me: Yes.
Driver: Do you like tango?
Me: [lies] I love tango.
Driver: Excellent! Who is you favourite singer?
Me: [still lying] Er…Gardel?
Driver: The champ! He’s the best! What’s you favourite of his work?
Me: [scratching around desperately and unable to come up with anything apart from}…er…Por Una Cabeza?
Driver: A great song. Well, sir, it’s your lucky day. [Winds up all windows] You are about to receive a private performance of Por Una Cabeza. Just sit back and enjoy.

[Proceeds to sing at the top of his voice to me via the rearview mirror. A frozen nervous smile steals across my face. The driver expertly navigates his way through traffic lights, avoiding pedestrians, singing all the while. The glass reverberates with the sound. My ears hurt.]

5 minutes pass.
Driver: That was good, no?
Me: [applauding gently] Yes. Very pleasant. I’m sad that it’s over.
Driver: Not to worry – I’ve got another one for you!

[Continues singing Gira Gira, followed by Mi Buenos Aires Querida, until we reach destination. I depart, ears ringing.]

To be continued.

Daily Commute

Yesterday I was running late. The buses simply were not coming; eventually two turned up at the same time, one full to the brim, the other half-empty. Naturally, I jumped on the half-empty one. Just past the ticket machine were two seats that are normally filled, with priority for pregnant women and the elderly, but more commonly taken by impatient commuters. I saw my chance at the empty seats, and then looked down. The floor next to the two seats was covered with a thin yet noticeable spread of fairly recent vomit.

Disgusted, I stood in the space, and watched as at every stop, fresh passengers went through the same experience as I. Their weary faces contemplating the day at work would briefly light up at the thought of a free seat, then instantly switch to disgust when they saw the pool of vomit. Thus, the two seats remained free for quite some time, and I imagine that all of us tried gamely to ignore the colourful spatter in the corner.

Finally, a short, slightly elderly woman got on. She had thick glasses but was walking with confidence; she saw the empty seats, and took her chance, plumping herself down, albeit in a side-saddle-esque stance. The silent shockwaves of incredulity rippled along the bus, as those of us who knew could not believe that this woman had sat on the seat, sacrificing her dignity in favour of half an hour of comfort before work. There are stronger people than I on this bus, we all concluded, silently in unison.

Then an older man got on. He, it was obvious, could not determine what lay before him within half a yard, so it was understandable that he would move to sit down on the accursed seats. He made to sit down, which was when I expected the woman to get up and give him her seat. Instead, she slid her legs along to the next seat, and was now sitting firmly in the middle of the puddle.

Instantly all became clear: she had no idea she was sitting in the mess. Horrified, it was now the duty of the other passengers to inform her that this was the case, and yet none of us had the guts, until finally a woman got up to offer either of the pair her seats. The two politely declined, pointing out that they were already comfortable, whereupon the poor lady had to inform them, with exemplary manners, that they were in fact sitting in a puddle of sick. The two rose instantly, the man less conscientious than the woman, who looked sad, as if once more her eyes had let her down. I felt nothing but pity for the lady.

It was then that I looked up and saw the Prophet walking in the road next to the window.

Bianchi

Woke up early on Saturday to play 6-a-side football with Argentines at 11am after listening to K’naan’s truly inspiring Wavin Flag. Having already played a few weeks previously, I knew what to expect, but the others didn’t. The pitch is inside; the turf is great, fake grass with fake specks of mud, but there is what appears to be a corrugated iron roof, turning the pitch into an oven. We played for an hour and forty minutes; most players had taken their tops off after the first five minutes.

Trudging back past beautiful houses in Barrio Parque, we passed an older gent wiping his windscreen, topless. As I still had my River shirt on, he pointed at it and exclaimed in French. At our nonplussed expressions he switched to Spanish, where it became clear that he was ‘puteando’ me for wearing a River shirt. The man in question, of course, was none other than Carlos Bianchi himself. Probably the most revered man in Argentine football, after Maradona, of course. Sworn at by a legend. Saturday afternoons don’t get better than that.

The Prophet

The Prophet floats through the streets of the big city at his own speed. His movement, his rhythm, is totally detached from the rush of traffic and people around him. He exists on another plane, considers things with calm eyes as he pads softly, always barefoot. His skin is a mud brown, sometimes black; it is hard to tell whether he has always been this colour or if years of living on the street have made him this way. His age is totally unknown.

His only clothes are a tattered pair of shorts and, occasionally, a tattered black dustbin liner cloak, wrapped around his neck and trailing in his wake. His hair is gloriously unkempt, but never seems to grow; his beard is similarly matted into a single shape. He is extremely muscular, not thin like the addicts or victims, but lithe, seemingly athletic. He is always smiling, the smile of a man at peace, but his eyes, though calm, often dart to take in a new sight or sound.

Sometimes he eats: I have seen him eat out of a dustbin before. He has none of the social awkwardness that accompanies some people of the street when they search for their food among the refuse of others, more a collected, discerning examination of all that is on offer before carefully choosing today’s meal – half an old pizza, or the bones from a steakhouse. Others dive shamefully into corners to consume their scraps, but he remains where he is, chewing thoughtfully, apparently oblivious to the world around him.

It is rare to see the Prophet in the same place twice within a short space of time. Sometimes one can see him several times in the same week, walking purposefully up towards Palermo or sheltering on a doorstep in the middle of the night, but I have found that one can go for weeks without seeing him. Indeed, I often find myself looking out of a taxi window at night at the empty streets spattered intermittently with semi-horrific scenes of the city after hours, hoping to see his frame pounding intently onwards. I feel that seeing him at that time of night will give me hope; consequently, I never do.

The times when I remember having seen the Prophet have always been moments when my mind has been totally preoccupied with problems, from the mundane work-related issues, to thoughts concerning the nature of who I am as a young adult and what my future will hold.

Once, I was walking around the block near where I work, with a colleague, and a most hideous wind and rain started to swirl and blow. The stinging rain came from all directions. We were furious, gesticulating angry about some ingrate at work who had driven us to rage. As we turned the corner next to the bank, still swearing at this invisible enemy, we stumbled upon the Prophet sheltering in an alcove. The wind blew his hair and his body was soaked, but he stood, as if he had been waiting for us. And he smiled. The smile reminded me of how futile and pathetic our anger was, and mine instantly subsided. I felt entirely at peace, or at least as we walked the square block I felt a beatific calm. One sight of this man and his smile had been enough to free me from my anger, albeit briefly.

It will be obvious, even to the most casual observer, that this city and everybody in it is in a terrible hurry to get somewhere rather than where they are – we are all late, even if we do not quite know what for, and we know it. There is never enough time. This is why the Prophet is crucial. His existence reminds us of what it means to be human, of what it means to be free of all the self-imposed obligations of this mad cap society. He is a constant example of both how lucky and how trapped we are. He is truth. I don’t even know his real name.

The Greatest Show on Earth...

...as everybody with access to ESPN/Fox knows, will be the World Cup this June in South Africa. Despite the concerns of many pessimists, myself included, concerned with the danger and expenses involved in staging an international tournament in the country, I have started to get excited about it and cannot wait for June.

However, the warm-up event for many of us is of course the Africa Cup of Nations 2010. Held in Angola, and already splashed across the news for the disastrous shooting of the Togo team bus (and subsequent shameful disqualification of the team from the tournament), the Africa Cup of Nations is reaching the knockout stages, sometimes lurching haphazardly onwards, but occasionally showing what a delight football at this level is.

There are very few prima donnas. Goalkeepers are never where they are supposed to be. Strikers shoot from halfway, and sometimes score. Players from muslim countries celebrate goals by bowing their heads in prayer to kiss the turf, while players from other countries simply double front-flip in front of the adoring crowd. The manager is often left stranded on the side of the pitch, shaking his head in disbelief as his team self-destruct (the opening game is a good example of this) or stupefied with glee as another improbable goal rolls into the back of the net. The underdogs always stand a chance; the favourites never win.

Having said the above, both yesterday's 0-0 draw between Angola and Algeria which saw both teams go through but which the Algerians admitted to be only playing for a draw, followed by the insipid and unconvincing 1-0 win by Ghana over Burkina Faso, have slightly taken the shine off a tournament that was regaining some stability after the unfortunate start. Let's hope that the next round can produce matches more like this and this.