‘Buena Onda’ in Buenos Aires
Laura Mowat
I have arrived in Buenos Aires. I take a taxi to my hostel, the taxi driver talks to me, well at me, and in my tired state of confusion, my understanding of this new argentine Spanish is incredibly limited. I soon realise that he is unable to drop me off at my hostel on Avenida De Mayo as there are protests happening and therefore I am abandoned in the middle of a street, somewhere in Buenos Aires, with my 30 kg suitcase, without a map. Struggling to work out which street I should go for, I wonder what I have let myself in for.
Nevertheless, it isn’t long till the Argentines entice me into their city. Living in a student residence leads itself to ‘buena onda’, an argentine phrase for good vibes; one night I am chatting to a Brazilian heavy metal rock band, another having an asado, (barbeque) with Columbians on the rooftop terrace. The people here are inclusive, you only have to go into a kiosk and ask for a coke and people are asking where you are from and why you are here. When I say I am from Manchester, they proudly bring up Carlos Tevez, an Argentine football player who plays for Manchester City. The Argentines are only too happy to share a maté (shared argentine herbal tea) with strangers and invite them into their lives.
I begin by teaching English to businessmen, the conversation classes demonstrate how
passionate people are here, and how they love to discuss (or perhaps ‘complain’ would be a more appropriate verb), about the politics of their country. I soon learn that when I want the class to go quickly, I can bring up the controversial Evita Peron character and their passion can work in my advantage. They are jealous that I come from England, the government gives me a loan to go to university, we can get mortgages, and we have the pound. Here when I witness a car crash a patrolling police officer actually turns the other way.
A few months after I arrive, I begin volunteering with children in ‘las villas’, shantytowns, an eye opening experience into life outside the bubble of the Palermo, Recoleta, San Telmo centre. Our minibus driver doesn’t stop at the red traffic lights, claiming it is ‘too dangerous’. The ‘villas’ often have no water or electricity and are made from materials they stumble upon such as mud or cardboard. The children are keen to learn and after teaching them French, they often ask me if they can take my notes away to learn for the next time. They question me about where I have visited in the world and what England is like. Some are unaware Europe exists, others are unaware another country exists. The volunteers give the children the opportunity to receive more personal attention; their classes at school may have 50 children for one teacher. We show them there is more to life than just what they know, another world is possible. I have a soft spot
for one particularly bright student called Augustin, he is 12 and looks after his 3 younger siblings as his mum works long hours. He never speaks of his father so I don’t ask.
The charity leader informs me of the problems there, such as girls selling sex at the age of 12, a lot of problems with drugs and most families do not have a father living with them, sometimes in prison. Carmen, the head of the school tells me how some girls will sell sex for 5 pesos (one pound) to buy Paco which is very addictive unprocessed cocaine. When a child does not eat, I question a co-worker who informs me that his mum has run away, he is alone, scared, he has given up. Often, unlike with their parents, the children can have a conversation with us and not just receive monosyllabic answers. I learn a lot about the lives these people live, no matter how poor they are; they usually always have a television. A television allows them to kill the hours of the day a little bit more quickly. Their villa is unbearably dangerous, screaming can be heard all night and people are scared to leave their homes after dusk. At school they are known as the kids from the villas, villeros, which is a rather derogatory tone, they have different words and clothing to the kids outside the villas. No-one is waiting for these children at home; no one will help them with their homework. The structure we give them as they have somewhere to go other than the streets in the afternoons, the attention, the exposure to different languages and the fact we are there to help are all invaluable for the communities.
I am worlds away from the night when I find myself in chic ‘Terraces del Este’, where silicone breasts seem to be popular and the queue for mirror space is longer than the queue for the toilets.
Argentineans have one of the highest rates of plastic surgery in the world which is far too obvious in some chic bars. In the shantytowns the children are impressed with my brick of a phone, here everyone is ‘blackberryied’ up. When we refuse to kiss men, they act confused, ‘pero tengo plata’, ‘(but we have money). However, as I discover Buenos Aires is diverse in locations to party. It is far from uncommon for a night to end at 8am, full of electro clubs, hip hop nights, hostel and house parties. Latinos can dance, that’s for sure.
Towards the ends of my trip, I find myself in the middle of the jungle in northern Argentina in an indigenous village, taking part in a humanitarian trip with the charity I have been working with. We bring clothes, food and more importantly, encourage education and basic hygiene. Before the charity came to the village, they had barely any clothes and as a result had to share the clothes they had to go to school. As a result, the children could only go to school a couple days a
week. I try explaining to them the subject of distance, the locals do not understand that you can’t get on a bus to reach England, the furthest they have been is their nearest town which is a 50 minute walk away. How does one begin to explain that there are places in this world that you can’t walk to? A little child smiles at me and asks me if I can dance and sing, even in the remotest of villages, music can be a lifeline.
I meet a girl who is my age; she has three children, in fact, out of the community of 350 people, only one 20 year old female does not have children. At one memorable point I am soaked and filthy thanks to the jungle rain, and as I am de-licing hair and trying to explain what it means to wash and brush your teeth, I feel that this is a rather impossible task. Nevertheless, the leader approaches me with a presentable young girl, thanks to the chain of volunteers like myself, she is
at university and even can speak some English, she now has a positive future ahead of her.
Recently a tourist tells me she finds Buenos Aires to be ‘polluted, dirty and crowded’; she hasn’t got to know the real BA. The energetic melting point it is, of cultures, people and music. She hasn’t got to know the ‘Buena Onda’ that Buenos Aires is so full of, the way all the people make it feel like you are living in a small friendly village and not a metropolis of a city, the way that the driver in the taxi thanks me profusely for volunteering in his country, even if it is in a small manner. Perhaps, the children won’t remember that ‘rojo’ is ‘rouge’ but I feel that I have left them with a bit more enthusiasm for life, and acted as a role model for those children who are lost and are lacking adult guidance. I leave Buenos Aires having made South American friends for life, including Fatima from Bolivia who calls me her Little English Sister, having lived in this awesome city and having hopefully given some of those children who have abandoned life some motivation, some hunger for living. Life can be worth living.
Thursday 8 July 2010
Wednesday 24 February 2010
A FATHER'S PRIDE
Abdul
‘Bravo Terencio! You are a natural’, I bellow as we sprint from a train in the centre of Nice, with the wallet of a disorientated tourist. I am teaching my younger brother how to master the skilful art of pick pocketing. My brother and I live in the outskirts of Nice with our Papa; ‘la banlieue1’ as it is called is full of our kind, North African immigrants. Our family are in the Moroccan tower block, the
area is really rather ghetto like, plagued by unemployment and drugs. We are originally from a tiny village in the north east of Morocco, you see, and Papa decided to move here a few months ago after Mama died, French education is one of the best we heard back home.
‘Look, Abdul, look!’, Papa is shouting excitedly, he is holding a crumpled, rather tired looking newspaper which he must have found on the streets. Papa’s hair is greying and his clothes are fading. The article is about the prestigious ‘Grand Ecole – France’s elite universities’. It describes how everybody who is anybody has been to these universities, and how they produce the majority of France’s highest ranking Politicians, Scientists and Civil Servants.
Although Papa was an academic back home in Morocco, he cannot find a job here; hence he is focusing his ambition on our futures. My heart plummets. I receive good marks at school, always have, nevertheless there is no chance I can get into these renowned universities as Papa can’t afford the preparatory lessons. Sighing, I leave the room for another day at school, like any son, I would do anything to make Papa proud.
‘Papa, Papa’ I yell after school that day, ‘I got a job, in the harbour cleaning sailing boats!’. After two
months and only managing to fund our basic lifestyle through rapidly receding savings and pick pocketing, this is an immense relief.
Jean
As the wind gushes by propelling the boat, I can feel the freshness of the wind beating against my face. Sailing is simply the most amazing sensation, I feel like I am sailing a powerful ship across the Atlantic. When, in fact I am in a topper in the Mediterranean Sea, off Nice. Nevertheless, for me my little, insignificant boat is the pearl of the ocean.
That night at dinner, with my family in Cannes, Father begins to boast to his smug, rich friends how I am soon on my way to the Grand Ecole in Lyon. The Grand Ecole he indeed went to. Within their rather snobby social circle, graduating from a Grand Ecole leaves a tattoo on their subconscious mind, a lasting stain of superiority. Earning a much sought after place would mean intense lessons lasting for two years for me to even stand a chance of getting in. I had always got by at school but never really excelled and now my father thinks that being accepted by the competitive Grand Ecole would be ‘pas de problème2’. I smile politely unwilling for his smug friends to witness Father and I having an argument.
One early morning I go to the port to sail when a rather skinny black boy called Abdul, I recognise from working in the port, approaches me offering me a croissant. I accept gleefully.
I become good friends with the skinny black boy, he is always there working and so am I sailing. I start my preparatory lessons for the Grand Ecole, however in actual fact I go sailing instead of attending sometimes. I hate these lessons, they are nicknamed the ‘royal way’ as they really are the only way to get in, yet they are so tough and every week we have oral examinations. I loathe them. I love sailing. It is my escape, my paradise, my vacuum of thought. Although, father thinks differently, ‘Sailing is no career, just a hobby’, he would constantly bark.
Abdul (the skinny black boy) and I joined the same football team and we are both pretty good. Well, maybe as he is so slight, he is better. Yesterday, I was tackled to the ground, the trainer screamed relentlessly, ‘How can you let these things happen to you without a battle!?’
The following days, I think about this comment. Abdul comes into my sailing boat for a ride and as the boat glides peacefully across the glistening water, the trainer’s words ring in my head. I knew how much Abdul wanted to take the preparatory lessons I was taking. I knew my chances of getting into the Grand Ecole were incredibly limited. I knew that I preferred to sail and ‘fight that battle’.
And so I offer the classes to him, Father would never know. By the time he finds out I will have had enough time to train for the annual sailing competition in Lake Annecy. I will make him proud that way. I hope.
I can tell Abdul is clever and sharp. His intelligence is refreshing. He is not from France and knows more about the French Revolution than me and my friends. As we sail across the sea, it is he who recognises the names of the different kinds of fish. It is he who patiently explains to me the tides.
Yet it is I who understands the wind. It is I who has the power over the sailing boat.
Abdul
I don’t believe it; do I accept the preparatory classes? I can pick pocket from strangers but can I really accept this kind giving from a friend?
I think about it a lot. I think hard and I even think about what my mother would do if she was in my position; I wish I could have asked her. She was so wise about these things. I can’t ask Terencio, my brother, I am older and he is the one who asks me for advice. I know how much it would mean to my Papa if I passed the exam to get into the Grand Ecole. Like any son, I want to make my Papa proud. Life in the ghetto of Nice is hard at times and I have even considered dealing some drugs for extra cash. I don’t want to go down that line. There is a lingering sense of hopelessness there which can be seen in the faces of the stray dogs milling around. This is like a lifeline, an opportunity to alter the road map of my life.
I take it. I attend the classes. I study hard for long hours. And after two years, I pass the exam. When I tell Papa, he simply breaks into a smile as bright as the midday Moroccan sun, an increasingly rare, deep, intoxicating smile which shows off his laughter wrinkles and exposes his age. He places his hand warmly on my shoulder and he just says ‘I knew you could’.
1 La banlieue are the suburbs.
2 No problem.
‘Bravo Terencio! You are a natural’, I bellow as we sprint from a train in the centre of Nice, with the wallet of a disorientated tourist. I am teaching my younger brother how to master the skilful art of pick pocketing. My brother and I live in the outskirts of Nice with our Papa; ‘la banlieue1’ as it is called is full of our kind, North African immigrants. Our family are in the Moroccan tower block, the
area is really rather ghetto like, plagued by unemployment and drugs. We are originally from a tiny village in the north east of Morocco, you see, and Papa decided to move here a few months ago after Mama died, French education is one of the best we heard back home.
‘Look, Abdul, look!’, Papa is shouting excitedly, he is holding a crumpled, rather tired looking newspaper which he must have found on the streets. Papa’s hair is greying and his clothes are fading. The article is about the prestigious ‘Grand Ecole – France’s elite universities’. It describes how everybody who is anybody has been to these universities, and how they produce the majority of France’s highest ranking Politicians, Scientists and Civil Servants.
Although Papa was an academic back home in Morocco, he cannot find a job here; hence he is focusing his ambition on our futures. My heart plummets. I receive good marks at school, always have, nevertheless there is no chance I can get into these renowned universities as Papa can’t afford the preparatory lessons. Sighing, I leave the room for another day at school, like any son, I would do anything to make Papa proud.
‘Papa, Papa’ I yell after school that day, ‘I got a job, in the harbour cleaning sailing boats!’. After two
months and only managing to fund our basic lifestyle through rapidly receding savings and pick pocketing, this is an immense relief.
Jean
As the wind gushes by propelling the boat, I can feel the freshness of the wind beating against my face. Sailing is simply the most amazing sensation, I feel like I am sailing a powerful ship across the Atlantic. When, in fact I am in a topper in the Mediterranean Sea, off Nice. Nevertheless, for me my little, insignificant boat is the pearl of the ocean.
That night at dinner, with my family in Cannes, Father begins to boast to his smug, rich friends how I am soon on my way to the Grand Ecole in Lyon. The Grand Ecole he indeed went to. Within their rather snobby social circle, graduating from a Grand Ecole leaves a tattoo on their subconscious mind, a lasting stain of superiority. Earning a much sought after place would mean intense lessons lasting for two years for me to even stand a chance of getting in. I had always got by at school but never really excelled and now my father thinks that being accepted by the competitive Grand Ecole would be ‘pas de problème2’. I smile politely unwilling for his smug friends to witness Father and I having an argument.
One early morning I go to the port to sail when a rather skinny black boy called Abdul, I recognise from working in the port, approaches me offering me a croissant. I accept gleefully.
I become good friends with the skinny black boy, he is always there working and so am I sailing. I start my preparatory lessons for the Grand Ecole, however in actual fact I go sailing instead of attending sometimes. I hate these lessons, they are nicknamed the ‘royal way’ as they really are the only way to get in, yet they are so tough and every week we have oral examinations. I loathe them. I love sailing. It is my escape, my paradise, my vacuum of thought. Although, father thinks differently, ‘Sailing is no career, just a hobby’, he would constantly bark.
Abdul (the skinny black boy) and I joined the same football team and we are both pretty good. Well, maybe as he is so slight, he is better. Yesterday, I was tackled to the ground, the trainer screamed relentlessly, ‘How can you let these things happen to you without a battle!?’
The following days, I think about this comment. Abdul comes into my sailing boat for a ride and as the boat glides peacefully across the glistening water, the trainer’s words ring in my head. I knew how much Abdul wanted to take the preparatory lessons I was taking. I knew my chances of getting into the Grand Ecole were incredibly limited. I knew that I preferred to sail and ‘fight that battle’.
And so I offer the classes to him, Father would never know. By the time he finds out I will have had enough time to train for the annual sailing competition in Lake Annecy. I will make him proud that way. I hope.
I can tell Abdul is clever and sharp. His intelligence is refreshing. He is not from France and knows more about the French Revolution than me and my friends. As we sail across the sea, it is he who recognises the names of the different kinds of fish. It is he who patiently explains to me the tides.
Yet it is I who understands the wind. It is I who has the power over the sailing boat.
Abdul
I don’t believe it; do I accept the preparatory classes? I can pick pocket from strangers but can I really accept this kind giving from a friend?
I think about it a lot. I think hard and I even think about what my mother would do if she was in my position; I wish I could have asked her. She was so wise about these things. I can’t ask Terencio, my brother, I am older and he is the one who asks me for advice. I know how much it would mean to my Papa if I passed the exam to get into the Grand Ecole. Like any son, I want to make my Papa proud. Life in the ghetto of Nice is hard at times and I have even considered dealing some drugs for extra cash. I don’t want to go down that line. There is a lingering sense of hopelessness there which can be seen in the faces of the stray dogs milling around. This is like a lifeline, an opportunity to alter the road map of my life.
I take it. I attend the classes. I study hard for long hours. And after two years, I pass the exam. When I tell Papa, he simply breaks into a smile as bright as the midday Moroccan sun, an increasingly rare, deep, intoxicating smile which shows off his laughter wrinkles and exposes his age. He places his hand warmly on my shoulder and he just says ‘I knew you could’.
1 La banlieue are the suburbs.
2 No problem.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
