Posts from — March 2009

Let me set the scene.

I had just fallen in love with Argentina after the approving sun set on my afternoon of shoe fitting and polo. Again the crew slept as we drove back to Buenos Aires. Again I kneeled next to Pepe in the aisle.

“How far is Salta?” I ask. (Salta being the place I would meet the superintendent of the school in need.) Pepe paused, tracing the map in his mind, “Maybe 15 hours…you could probably get a bus tonight.” 15 hours… in case you didn’t catch what I just wrote. I walked back to my seat and sat so my mind could race. It seemed in my haste to accept a project, I forgot to inquire just how far this need was. As it turns out, the need was only a few hours from the borders of both Bolivia and Chile.

So here’s the scenario: I had committed to taking your donations to a remote location where there was a school waiting in need. In a few days, Voluntario Global would be holding their event in the barrio of Buenos Aires, which I would like to go to but didn’t actually commit to. More importantly, I had to catch a flight a couple days later. This is when the “what were you thinking” thoughts come, realizing there were probably plenty of needs a little closer than 15 hours away. But what’s done is done, or at least needs to be done, and I couldn’t exactly back out.

I finally arrive back to my hostel close to 9 pm and determine catching a bus tonight is probably a bit rushed, so I pack and sleep instead. Next morning I wake and find the following email from Pepe:

“Hi!! Derek I need now when you goin to Salta, please sende me this information, because this guy, need it he will waiting for you. His neme is Guzman Viveros he stay in the Capital, and his ofice is in the town Balcarce street inside the one trein station and his fone is 0387 490 9045”

So I get crackin. The first thing I learn is that the bus ride is not 15 hours but 20 and more expensive than I expected. But done is done, so I decide on the 4:30 departure and email Pepe. I grab my bags, a bottle of water, “super pancho” (hot dog), and board the bus.

I think it would serve your imagination to know about the bus ride, but I’ll for the sake of time, save that for another entry. I did however, manage to sleep about 17 of the 20 hours. I get off the bus and as the feeling returns to my legs, I try to call Mr. Viveros. Out of service… No problem, he’s expecting so I’ll just go to his office. I hail a cab and somehow communicate “train station” based on the Pepe’s email.

Now in my mind, I imagine a big train station, near a capitol building which probably looked something like a small white house. One of the two buildings, I deducted would be on a street called Balcarce and his office could be found inside. Well I was off on several accounts. First the train station was under construction, and I’m still not sure if operational. I did find a Balcarce street in the vicinity but it lead to no clear “capital building” and while I did find a way into the train station it seemed mostly abandoned minus the one security guard outside who judging by his blank stare, did not recognize the name Guzman Viveros.

I find a coffee shop with wifi, drop Pepe an email, and with no other ideas return to the train station to explore. Eventually, I do find a stairwell and at the top some offices. I write down Guzman’s name on a napkin and ask three different people “Donde esta (where is) Guzman Viveros?” pointing to my napkin… Stares and nods, stares and nods. Running out of options and imagining Guzman is running out of patience, I finally find someone who recognizes the name. He asks some questions in Spanish, which I don’t understand, then eventually writes a note, hands it to me, and walks me outside where you points to building nestled among a scattering of ghostly train cars about 100 yards down the tracks. He points and motions with his hands to either stop or wait. I guess wait. So I walk to the building, which is a mostly abandoned warehouse with a couple rooms.

After about two hours of waiting and wondering if I’m in the right spot, three guys show up, enter a room and shut the door behind them. I continue to wait… eventually, I am called in. Now I’m a pretty sharp guy, so it didn’t take me long to figure out Mr. Viveros spoke NO English. Combined with my lack of Spanish, you can imagine how the next 45 minutes went. I’d try to ask a basic question mixed with bad Spanish and English, Guzman would draw blank and shake his head. Then Guzman would say something in Spanish, to which I would smile and shake my head. After one final attempt of communicating through a napkin doodle, I think Mr. Viveros decided to call it a day. We would meet the following day at 9 a.m.

I climb into my backpack, step outside, sigh, and wander the streets for a hostel as the sun sets and the clouds spit.

7 o’clock came awful early.  And I do mean awful. The alarm sounds-piercing the darkest part of my soul. I frantically scramble to find and stop the torturous beep of my watch which I had attached to the foot of my bed the night before so as not to just push the button and roll over in agitated rebellion. I know what you’re thinking: “7 am? Wow, Derek, you poor thing!” Yeah, yeah-I know for some of you 7 am is almost laughably late and might even be considered sleeping in. But when evening activities carry you consistently to 3 or 4 in the morning, 7 comes too quick.

When I finally remember where my watch is, I stop the alarm, curse the sky and roll out of bed. As usual, my questioning existence fades by the time I get to the shower, where I rinse off any residual irritation, then continue to get ready.

Outside it had showered as well, and the streets of Aires glistened under a blanket of moisture. The skies were grey, dripping with inconsistency, but my spirits were bright. Today would be a good day. Today would be the shoe drop.

I walked to the hotel and entered the lobby where a group of volunteers had arrived the night before from different parts of the world. I introduced myself and realized something very clearly, that is how different my life had become. I had wandered just down the street from my hostel, still soggy, I met a range of people from different places. Several were students, a couple young energetic entrepreneurs, a real estate agent living in Costa Rica, a young man who had once lived on the streets of skid row-now resolved to helping others—but all had roots, homes. They had steady lives, which afforded them several days absence before requiring their return. But each came with purpose, and I was honored to join this group of like-hearted people.

Pepe arrived, spirited as ever. He explained the day’s events including our first disappointment. One shoe drop was canceled due to the rain and in sufficient roads. The shoes, he assured, would be delivered at a later date, in the meantime, we would kill a couple hours with sightseeing before continuing to one of the poorer neighborhoods in Buenos Aires for the other shoe drop.

We piled into a minibus, humming with the energy of a humanitarian summer camp, and after a Starbucks and a couple key sights we arrived. The children were starting to gather outside the meek school building. We organized the boxes by shoe-size, then ushered the children in. One by one, the young Argentines were escorted to a chair. Then if only for a few precious moments, the boy or girl would rest humbly on his or her throne, and as kings and queens we kneeled at their feet, smiled into their eyes, and fitted each with his or her very own, very new pair of shoes. Our knees collected dirt, dirty feet filled clean shoes, and our hearts were warmed.

When we finished, Pepe cheered us back on to the bus and told us of a special treat. Alejo was in small polo tournament outside Buenos Aires, we would close the afternoon with an Argentina past time. During the 1½ hour bus ride, as the weary travelers slept, I kneeled by Pepe, asking details of future projects. With me by his side, Pepe called and confirmed the school and needs with the distant superintendent, then hung up the phone. “He is very excited to have you! I’ll arrange the details and email to you tonight…”

The rest of the afternoon, we sprawled over grassy blades under the cool shade of strong trees watching mighty horses and Argentines speed competitively by. We were the only gringos but it didn’t matter. The contented locals rode, laughed, played this cowboy mix of golf and soccer. As the orange Argentine sun set, the air was sweet and rich. The men gathered sweaty, dirty, happy as they sipped beer in the company of their beautiful adoring wives. I breathed deep and slowly.

It’s hard to say, but I think in this moment under the pink sky, somewhere in the Argentine country, after a day of fitting shoes on tiny feet… I think it was this moment when I fell in love with Argentina.