La Quinta

La Matanza, Buenos Aires
14-16 Dec 2008

I’m not a very good guest at Pablo and Nicole’s.

Within minutes of arriving, I realize how exhausted I am after two weeks of intense travel experience, not much sleep and 10,000 air miles. I really should have done this in reverse: spend a few days in air-conditioned comfort in central B.A., and then venture out to the exurban sprawl to la Matanza, and la Quinta.

That first night we visit a bit and have a simple meal. I find myself quieter than usual. Lucas and Sebastian (boys) are excited to be having me around. They call me “tio Greg” (uncle Greg) and at first speak charmingly to me in alternate Spanish and English, whichever strikes their fancy. They learn quickly though that speaking to me in English is easier, and I’m humbled by the bilingual fluency of a 2 and a 4 year-old. It’s a strange thing to feel at a loss and to sometimes rely on a 4-year-old to communicate or translate.

We hit the hay relatively early. Unfortunately, we sleep badly as Pablo becomes ill (too much carne, we later conclude), and I’m chewed by mosquitos which makes me sleep curled up, a posture that in turn gives me one of my colossal neck/headaches. The next morning, I’m much worse off than the day before. Bleary, nearly-mute, achy.

I fortify myself with 600mg of ibuprofin and the idea of my first real shower in two weeks.

The way hot water works here (and I guess in many places in South America) is that the turning on the hot water tap triggers an on-demand heater that, like a simpler version of those fancy Japanese instant tankless water heaters, produces hot water without the waste associated with US-style tanks, though it takes a minute or two to get going. As instructed, I set the bathroom sink hot faucet going in advance of the shower, so that the water will be hot when I turn on the shower faucets. This works, though the pressure drops while I’m in the shower, which I suppose turns off the flow valve in the califaccíon. OK, so I’ll just get out of the shower, and adjust the flowing bathroom sink hot tap to increase the flow. Soap in my eyes, I step out of the stall. WHANG! I forget, and also don’t see, the low horizontal bar of the aluminum shower door frame located right at head level. Well, my head level, anyway. Perhaps not your typical Argentinian villa vacation rental head level. I have completely clocked the top of the head against the bar, stepping out at a full walk speed. I stagger. No question of continuing the shower. Soapy, I feel my head - already a big bump. With a bloody hand, I turn off all the taps. I slowly towel-off and dress, my head now aching in two different ways.

A lethargic morning follows. The boys play – they have their own swimming pool and a big yard full of things to do. My head slowly rings down, back to normality. We visit. I don’t move much. Occasional magnificent birds of prey that I’ve never seen before fly by. I’m surprised to see them here in la Matanza.

Pablo & Nicole are anthropologists. So, Pablo & I decide go off and perform some anthropological field work: grocery shopping outside the compound in greater la Matanza. Pablo cautions me to avoid speaking at all when we’re around people outside la Quinta. Having driven for many kilometers through the area, I already know he’s right.

Pablo and I have a nice visit as we walk through the not-quite-city, not-quite-country. It’s strange to fall silent, though, every time we approach people. In the shops themselves, I find it interesting to see how Argentines interact. Pablo talks at length with every merchant, and it’s clear they all enjoy this. I’m treated to the elaborate ritual of retail life here, in which a series of tiny pieces of paper are exchanged, signed, discussed, and memorialized. Each has print so small and the onion skin slip so insubstantial that the exchange can only mean something like, “I trust you in this transaction” or “Please take this token of our appreciation for your patronage.” I infer this since I can see there is no way the details of a transaction can be reconstructed from these slips. I later find in my own transactions that aside from their size, every Argentine receipt turns out to be printed with some kind of disappearing ink. Removing a tiny crinkled paper from your pocket an hour after a transaction produces a nearly blank tissue of a receipt – a kind of merchant mandala.

With time, I see that I could probably navigate this poor area OK by myself – the people we meet are fine. But, there are plenty of poor young men around who would have no problem relieving me of my iPhone…

Grim sights are around, though. We walk a couple of times past a dog carcass eaten by, well, other dogs. It lies on the sidewalk, a few minutes walk from the nearest stores. A bit further is a large burlap sack, tied-off, in the curb, and buzzing with flies. Obviously, something large and dead is inside. We don’t look, and passersby don’t even glance at it.

Everywhere is trash, partially burned structures, piles of furniture and ruined shacks. But, the neighborhood is plenty alive. People go about their business, and the streets have plenty of kids and the occasional soccer ball.

Pablo refers to la Quinta and the rental compound as the “Green Zone.” Later, Nicole tells me that she and the kids haven’t left the Green Zone since they arrived a couple of weeks ago. I don’t blame them, as it would be distressing for their boys to see dog-eaten dogs lying in the street.

Having successfully shopped outside the Green Zone, we return to relax, and have dinner with Pablo’s good friend from childhood, Fernando and his family. They’re clearly old friends. I’m thrown off balance early on though, since Pablo starts a bilingual conversation with my observation about the poverty here and specifically, the amount of trash everywhere and the degraded environment people live in. I’ve naively fallen into the rich, privledged, First-Worlder trap of criticizing poorer places, though I didn’t mean for anyone else to hear me. Fernando defends his country and people with the argument that the government of Argentina, and American-style corporatism, have oppressed and exploited the people here and everywhere. True enough, I agree. What I don’t voice, partly because of my non-fluency, and partly out of deference, is my thought that this argument is the same as saying “life is unfair, so I’m not going to wash my hands after I crap.”

But, it’s friendly enough, and we enjoy a nice dinner, with the kids (F has an 8-year-old daughter) getting wound-up big time, running all around. I pass out early, and apparently everyone, including the little ones, stays up late out in the yard, laughing, having beers, playing with hand puppets, and visiting in pure Spanish; no gringo-interpretation required.

The next day, I’m still lethargic. I decide I need air-conditioning, an internet connection and two sleep-cycles a day. So, I beat a retreat to central B.A., where I’ve booked a mid-to-upper range hotel. We make plans for me to hook up with P’s family members and for us adults to go out in B.A. without kids later in the week. I pile once more into Walter’s remise, OK? The little boys, confused a bit, wave at me. I’m off to the First World, rubbing the scab on my head and feeling a little embarrassed to have failed to complete even a short tour of duty in the Green Zone.