Continent Jump - Africa to Argentina
06/02/10
I fought the numbness spreading through my limbs, the pleasant, achy yielding. My eyes fluttered in the taxi, closed then opened, my head rolling as I sat motionless. Sleep pulled at my body with compression, while my mind lulled like waves in and out of consciousness by the rhythm of my exhales. Tempting me to sleep, Capetown was a string of soft lights, black and yellow, thining the city into a blanket of silky darkness.
It was a long day of traveling. Again. After only a couple hours of sleep, we awoke at 3 a.m. for our 5:45 a.m. flight in the wrong direction from Capetown to Jo´burg. After a two-hour stopover, we flew 12 hours from Johannesburg to Buenos Aires, Argentina.
Since I cannot sleep on planes, by the time we landed in South America my mind functioned about as well as a donkey plays cricket. My face resembled the beauty of a sumo wrestler doing the splits, but without the sexy thong.
Lack of sleep made it impossible for me to understand why Argentina Customs was charging us $70 U.S. each for our Visas. When we left Canada, I researched and thought we did not need Visas. The Custom´s Official explained the charge was added December 28th. We left on the December 27th. In Argentina, Americans were charged $131 U.S. for their Visas, the opposite of our experience in Zimbabwe, though the explanation was the same - Argentina was simply charging what their citizens have to pay to enter other countries.
In our face, New York Bobaconda.
We jumped in a taxi towards Boxie-boo´s second cousin Teresa´s house, who had offered for us to stay at her home. To thank her for her hospitality, we gave her a pair of African salad spoons with giraffes on them. Boxie-boo´s grandma was sisters with Teresa´s mother, which made Boxie-boo´s mother a first cousin with Teresa, though the age difference was massive - Boxie-boo was 24, Teresa was 73.
Our driver inched the small taxi choked my traffic, stalling his starts at almost every green light. We were back on the right handside of the road for the first time in months, which felt oddly unfamiliar and strange, the way, I imagined, a man who changed his sex would feel if he, now a she, put a banana in her pocket.
The afternoon light through the windshield was pale and tired. The small buildings of faded paint and scattered garbage gave the community the cluttered look of a living room after a drunken party. I felt exhaustion and weariness in my eyes and back. Lawns and sidewalks were jammed with rusted and forgotten cars. Saddened, I counted them on one block.
Sixteen.
Tiredness rose with each new minute flashing on my old school Cacio watch I bought in Egypt. The outskirts of Buenos Aires freyed my nerves with confusion. Some areas seemed rather wealthy with well-maintained small businesses and shopowners brushing away the dust on the sidewalk with brooms. Other areas were filled with massive slums blocked by fences of discarded wood and tin roofing, where packs of dogs fought for territory near garbage-infested soccer fields home to donkeys tied to goal posts. It was strange for me to think that on these fields of falling over goals, drive-way sized puddles and grass in lengths from two-foot high to bare rocks, maybe where some of the greatest soccer players in the world developed their skills.
I resolved not to check my watch until we arrived at Teresa´s house.
Surrounded by half-awake images of homeless beggars, mechanic shops and broken down cars, we turned off the main roads. It was midnight Capetown time, 7 p.m. in Buenos Aires. We met Teresa behind a metal gate and fence, who welcomed us into her home excitedly speaking Italian to Boxie-boo. I communicated by trying to look attractive, but more so resembled a goat afer a night of drinking. I looked Baaad. Sorry, poor joke.
Walking into the house, I thought I heard the sound of exhaling exhaust. My own breaths had become bassy from lack of sleep. Sitting in the living room, I listened to Teresa´s foosteps moving quickly in the kitchen of her small home to the sound of my creaking chair as I leaned back in comfort. She was preparing tea and on the phone with her son Juan Jose. Within minutes, he came by and gave us Argentinian, turned-cheek kisses on the side of our faces. He was a handsome fellow, with a big smile, tight curly hair and well-groomed facial hair on his chin and lower cheekbones. Teresa and her son were so welcoming, they made us both feel at home.
A proud father to his 11-month old daugher, Juanita, and husband to his beautiful wife, Marisa, he drove us to meet them at Marisa´s hair salon called Wonderwoman, where Boxie-boo was given a free haircut. Afterwards, we went grocery shopping with the entire family, who invited us into their home and cooked us dinner. It was amazing hospitality, something we hoped to return and plan to if we could convince them to visit Vancouver. If only they were potheads and hockey fans.
By midnight, which was 5 a.m. Capetown time for us, we were dropped back of at Teresa´s for much needed sleep. We had been awake for 26 hours after only three hours sleep.
“Buenas noches,” (good night) I said, waving goodbye to Juan in his truck. I could hear a pencil scratching beneath my vocal chords, my voice weakening. I must have sounded like an aroused guinea pig. I rubbed my stomach to show appreciation for the meal. “Muchas gracias.”
That´s all for now.
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