Florencio Varela to La Boca
06/08/10
We started our day in a packed line-up to enter the post office, jam full with a crowd all filling out the same form, which I was later told was for welfare. Once inside, we weren´t the only ones confused as locals kept coming up to us and asking us for help in Spanish. I continuously said, “Sordo” (deaf), while holding my hands over my ears, though I was also tempted to do the Chicken Dance.
Once at the front of the line, our lack of Spanish gave away our local disguises. Noticing many people take a sudden interest in our presence, I thought about what Juan told us and decided to speedwalk once outside to avoid being followed by someone in the know.
Yes, it was probably safe, but when a local told us the neighbourhood was poor and dangerous, especially for foreigners, we felt it was best to keep our nationality secret and keep moving once revealed. For this reason, I decided not to wear my Canadian flag underwear on the outside of my pants, never said “eh” or played street hockey on concrete soccer courts.
The following section has nothing to do with riding the bus…
Walking on to the bus to head towards La Boca again, as we enjoyed it so much, the bus smelled of dust clouds. The entrance had worn carpet torn at the seams, nearby giant tire wells with one elevated seat on top. The tinted section of the windshield was worn with small holes, creating tubes of light, looking like stars, as the driver´s chair made the sound of bending plastic.
His seat frame was wrapped in black tubes, resembling a vacuum hose, while he bounced up and down as we attempted to let him know where our stop was. It was like talking to Jack after he jumped out of the box, but without feeling the need to giggle and clap like a three year old. We gave him written down directions of a cross street, and he nodded, pointing at nearby seats before picking his nose and scratching his butt. He was either willing to assist us, or helping his nostril hairs communicate with his bumstache. Ah, I do smell your new shampoo.
The driver listened to talk radio that was only interrupted by flute solos, looking back through his seven various mirrors, attached above his head in brown patches from too much glue. He bounced down the road using an aftermarket red steering wheel, which also had a mirror. Its only purpose, I imagined, would be to examine his nose hairs while driving, something all men think about doing, especially my male readers. Even you.
I still could not get over the silence on buses in Argentina. I could hear the frame make the sound of twisting leather, the maroon drapes clapping over shades of grey, caked-on dirt, while the driver´s cabinet door bounced open and closed. Broken.
We were sitting on chairs attached to the ground by rusted bolts, the metal of the legs rubbing off like flaking paint, with our bootaes planted on torn chairs that revealed yellow foam, knife-wound jagged. Many locals slept with their heads pendulum swaying back and forth with their chins on their chests. Young mothers came on and off, many looking no older than 16, carrying small babies. Body piercings were a common sight, with pieces of metal pertruding from the back of their necks, chins and the area between their noses and mouths. I was glad nobody dropped their pants.
Looking out the spattered-paint dirty windows, most side streets were unpaved with homes residing next to random piles of dirt and rock. Their windows and doors were barred, most without colour, appearing made from glued together rubble. The lock on the ticket box continually chattered. Forty-five minutes riding. Still no one talked. The only colour outside was that of advertisements and graffiti. Crossing creeks, we saw the shoreline etched with garbage. There were many cars on blocks, seemingly relics from another time, rusted a dark brown. I could hear the chinging sound of the lock banging against the ticket machine, only interrupted by locals pouring in change. Our voices mute. Everyone mute.
Sordo.
We noticed the cross streets we needed to stop at. The bus driver never stopped. I should have known his bumstache could speak to his nostril hairs.
Off the bus, Boxie-boo´s held a cold fist in my hand, the first day actually cold in what they called winter in Buenos Aires. Walking in search of the colourful neighbourhoods of La Boca, at first we only passed homeless people digging through garbage. Above us, the street lights were small boxes hung in the middle of the road dangling off wires. Below was almost constant dog shit, which meant we were often walking sideways, careful to watch passerbyers as even locals wore their backpacks on their front to avoid theft.
“We gotta do the poo poo dance,” Boxie-boo said, while rocking some cha cha moves, her hips swaying, between the street logs.
After many depressing views both on and off the bus from Florencio Varela, La Boca lit up with even more colour. I squeezed Boxie-boo´s hand as we walked by homes bright in pinks, yellows and blues, where local men sat on public benches drinking coffee and reading the paper. It seemed unusually beautiful to me on this day. At first, I was not sure why.
Afraid she could not understand, I looked into her eyes and saw my answers there. In one fluid movement, her hand began to sway in mine, before she began skipping. Smiling. I suppose La Boca became our favourite part of Buenos Aires, though many sections were no doubt tourist traps. Beyond the markets and tango dancers, the neighbourhoods were homely and friendly, full of happy locals. It truely was a manmade garden of metal and wood, growing out of the greyness that at sometimes, seemed to overcast every sight and sound.
That´s all for now.
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