The Road to Salta

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.