pero si no son negro de piel?

one of the principle advantages of being politically retrograde, economically struggling and geographically isolated is that, no matter how sophisticated you may or may not be, you are unwittingly forgiven an egregious degree of political incorrectness (then again, perhaps i only speak for myself; that is, yes, i herein bare my colors: foreigners' prejudices are both amusing and strangely becoming at times. at least, that is, when they differ from one's own. do not humor and fascination occur when our worldviews are merely shaken but not stirred?) that is not to say that only argentina, albania and alabama share this affinity; i would imagine frogs, krauts and canadia-landers to be as epistemologically 'incorrect' as the next kid on the global block, if only by omission rather than commission. what is different, then, is what you take the liberty to say. and in argentina, the difference is huge.

a personal disclosure: i do not condone argies bigotry, i merely hope to expose it (which anyone with a half an ear, .6 of a frontal lobe and a quasi-functioning esophagus can readily do), comedify it and, yes, have a chuckle. tis like what paul mooney said in response to michael richardson: "anyone can make jokes about race, so long as it's funny." i am certainly taking him out of context on this one. he also said that kramer could only make up for his capital blunder so long as he performed the same act on stage at the apollo (after which greta van susteran - yes, i'm using paul mooney and greta van susteran in the same sentence - enlightened her audience by reminding them that the 'famous' theatre was in harlem; to which mooney responded, "trust me, sweatheart, the apollo in harlem is as white as you, so don't worry about it, it's safe.").

there was a time when i lived in a small town in the pampas called 'general villegas,' a micropolis that took its trusty name from one of the more infamous leaders of the 'conquest of the desert' - that is, patagonia and the inland provinces southwest of buenos aires - toward the end of the 19th century. at least the yanks had the good sense to wage their wars of genocide before the invention of the telegraph and global standard time zones (which i imagine greatly facilitated reporting such matters), much less call it a 'desert' campaign. we even named a large chunk of our emerging sporting franchises after the brave resistance with which we were met. the argentines, oddly enough, still name their teams after the english patrons for whom they 'conquered' the 'desert' to begin with (if hints of cynicism or antipathy toward my new gracious host appear, bare in mind i'm living with and being taught by militantes for whom the yanks aren't the sole hemispheric culprits). anyway, back to villegas (which is currently the cause of national scandal, a matter we'll touch upon momentarily).

upon arrival in the small town, i would often wander the streets by day - in between giving lessons, of course - and make for the corner dive at night. humbly opening onto a principle corner, my initial social stakeout boasted a small pool table, an abundant supply of ice-cold 3-peso/liter quilmes and mani salado - and a straggle of interesting, if not quite sober, patrons. i'd bet a peso here and a peso there, usually lose the game, but have a 'local' story in between - and usually a new mate or two after each encounter. they weren't the most strapping gentlemen in town but, remember, this is another advantage 0f travel - or at least removing oneself from the usual socio-economic-educational comfort zone: the further you get from where you started, the more fun, interesting and, frankly, welcoming, they tend to be. and the spot on the corner was no different. as my language teacher reminded me this morning, tis only the reactionary middle classes - identical across the globe - that we need to worry about. i'm still not quite sure if i'm to be rich or poor, though. enough of that, however. the point is that upon arrival to my host family's house, they would ask me where i'd been (these days, my youthful gaze could come in handy: young enough to 'not know better' though old enough to 'hold his own' should the ramparts give way from the other side of the tracks. and yes. the town was literally, socially, aesthetically, footballishly divided by then-defunct tracks). i had been to a history lecture at the catholic church earlier that night (deft alibi, i know), though in the end decided to disclose most of the whole truth - i'd been back to the corner spot to shoot pool with the laborers and drink beer. "no - ebaan! you must not be with these people! the negros are sure to take you for a ride!" every family i stayed with - and they seemed to toss me about throughout town - repeated the same misgivings. "only negros smoke shit - and play pool - and labor - and eat cheese on sundays." i was stunned. i'd only caught my first glimpse of real-life (white) american racism at a high school party on the south side and was flabbergasted these things still existed (in words, if not in every civic body with some social function). yet in argentina - on the pampas - the nebraska of south america - the trou de cul de rien de l'est - there isn't a black person for hundreds of miles. "what do you mean, negros?" i asked one of the landed families i happened to be staying with for several weeks. "no no no - ebaan - no son negro de piel, si no negro de corazon!" ah, yes, now i see.

bendicion a las 24 horas

underneath the crumbling, calcutta-meets-parisian belle epoque a l'americaine awnings reads the sign, "bendicion a las 24 horas." overblown 'southern-city-that-never-sleeps' comparisons may be premature, though i'll take the 4-am blessing over a paco-induced mugging up the block any day. in what appeared to be an ancien-theatre-aux-spectacles-turned-temple-of-god, the evangelicals outdid themselves once again. if catholics could ever be as creative in their architectural appropriations as their pentacostal counterparts, who knows how many less hearts ole ratzinger would have hardened. en fin, this is neither the time nor the place for such ripostes - merely a call to appreciate the aesthetically-less-intimidated. some day historians will chart the fluctuations of (post)modernity by the structural conversion rate to and fro the house of God: in Montreal the Cathedrals have been converted into condos; in Buenos Aires the theatres now double as neon Pentacostal storefronts.

i am exaggerating, of course. gaging the piety of metropolitan outposts in the New World has never been an simple affair - and i, for one, claim no insight thereupon. furthermore, we must also bear in mind the socio-geographic origins of our study: the capital federal, as is well known amongst portenos and astute outsiders alike (however subtly acknowledged), is as geographically divided by class as any other metropolis; what makes the geography of its socio-economic divide slightly more enthralling is that they begin (at least in theory) at one major east-west thoroughfare (the Avenida Rivadavia) and proliferate the further north - and, consequentially, south - you get. furthermore, as if popular urban folklore weren't enough, the names of the north-south bound streets even change once they cross this threshold. imagine, for example, if something like 'malcolm x boulevard' became 'avenue of the americas' on respective sides of central park (oh wait, it does). now imagine if that happened at one intersection, ad infinitum, all they way from east to west of town. now that's what i call a roundabout cabbie's dream ride with recently arriving swedes heading for their hostel.

it should go without saying, then, that we live on the southern side of the tracks (though with the current exchange rate could also readily live in much of the northern bits. that being said, if it is only somewhat degrading to pay triple for tall-boys in the west village, tis that much more demeaning to forgo their presence altogether - as is the case in bougified bits of argie-towns). if Saint Louis, Mo can boast neither a particularly privileged northern or southern side of town (much less east or west), then both parties (if not all four) have the distinct privilege of claiming the hard-earned pride of the materially-less-endowed that occurs in many an American town. (no high schooler, on the other hand, gets to brag about growing up in clayton). Buenos Aires, alas, does not seem to allow for this sociological incongruence: wealthy enough to for its privileged classes to believe themselves part and parcel of the global, developed elite they so desperately strive to embody - but poor enough to sense the potential onslaught of darkened 'masses' at their door - northern-dwelling portenos, as of yet, do not seem to relish the prospect of dining, shopping, relaxing - much less living - in the south. as far as i can tell, there is no romanticization of the barrio - much less those that live there, as is the case in some american cities (i once had a mate who moved to bed-stuy to be closer to jay-z's birth place; no one, i'm afraid, will be moving to the villa to honor maradona).

the departure

It all started on the way to the airport, as many a tale does. Not that this is really a tale - more like a sketch of sorts; an observational sphinx that rears its head during occasional moments of reflection. We were ahead of schedule, but I'd missed my flight to Saint Louis from New York the week beforehand and was still a tad agitated with my recent negligence; a league or two shy of anxious, I didn't mind sitting around O'Hare for a few hours and catching up on the weekly periodicals. Might as well, now that they're trying to charge $7 for the Economist. (and $45 pesos on the Recoleta stands, mind you. Didn't think reactionaries could also be opportunists, a friend of mine from Bushwick might have quipped.) In any case, I would need at least a short hour to mull over my pack of Camels and the summertime continent I was henceforth abandoning.

Brasil had just beaten the North Koreans, and my uncle was to bring me to the airport at 5:30. This is neither the time nor the place for a meritable character sketch, though a proper rendition of such would be, of no doubt, unquestionable benefit to humankind. I say that without any facetiousness or hint of irony. This chap is one truly funny bastard. That being said, we set off for O'Hare around 6:15, slightly behind schedule but with enough slack to check in before the 9:10 haul to Sao Paulo. After pretending to rear-end a Hyundai with his Audi A8 - and coming alarmingly close to doing so - we were met with uncanny delay of sorts, even by Chicago rush-hour standards within a missile's throw of the world's fourth busiest airport (I'll let the reader divine the first three). The standstill, shall we say, posed a particularly interesting dilemma. Historically speaking, I've always find it more than remotely difficult to engage with this particular uncle, if not with older relatives in general whom I only encounter on rare occasions. Within recent years, however, and with one particular occasion in mind, he'd displayed several miraculous gems of comedic genius - if you were able to consign a layer or two of social conditioning to oblivion. (For instance, the time on New Years day with Christoph when my uncle pretended he was going to run over the poor Mexican lad standing in the cold and taking orders at the hotdog joint; only minutes later, he offered the same bloke $100 if he could read the signature on the credit card receipt. A bold fresh piece of humanity, I must admit.) The question of breaking the ice, however, is always the same: where to begin?

I thought I could knock at the golden gates of comedic folly with the odd quip on whether or not Lebron was thinking of coming to the Bulls from Cleveland. Twas the only thing I could muster about sports and Chicago, apart from the recent Stanley Cup parade (and my uncle didn't strike me as much of a hockey type). "Now why would he wanna do that?" Uh oh. "Oh I don't know," I blustered, "they say Chicago's a much bigger market." "You think that guy give's a shit about the market?" Fuck. "Maybe he wants to go to Miami," he continued. "Oh yes, good point," I feebly reply, "that's certainly a possibility." He pauses, before resuming, "Think I give a rat's ass about those guys? Absurd, the amount of money they make. Fucking kiddin' me," was the general response. (Keep in mind that none of this is verbatum - I'm merely trying to recapture the essence of what is now a five day old memory. Not particularly mnemonically ambitious, I know.) 0 for 1 - but at least we're onto Miami.

My uncle then went on to recount his most recent experience in that lovely Floridian hedonopolos - the highlight of which was the extraordinary people watching in the hotel's lobby. I can only imagine. (I do envy witnessing the monstrously fabulous gems that are said to exist in that town - if only from a somewhat (temporally) short, if not sweet, distance.) Somehow, we get to the topic of stripclubs - of which, to my great relief, neither of us were big fans. Were the opposite the case for either party, things could have become slightly more awkward, as each either sought to play down his 'sensibilities' - or subtly justify his own lack thereof; en fin, that wasn't the case - and we could get back to more important matters - like finding the terminal, for instance.

"So where am I taking you anyway?" he fondly repeated every third minute or so. "Oh I'm pretty sure there will be a sign up ahead," I reply with the wisdom of an ancient sage. "You sure about that?" "Ye-yeah," I stammer, "I think so." "I think, therefore I am - they teach you about that, eh?" For some reason, I hesitate just enough for him to answer his own question: "Immaan-yua-al Kant." Seconds later, I come to my mnemonic senses, "No, I think it might've actually been Descartes." "Whatever... they're cousins, anyway," he assures me. "Nothing but a bunch of screwballs, those Europeans. Mothers, brothers, aunts and uncles, who knows what the fuck those nutjobs are up to over there." My love and appreciation for the New World have grown seven-fold ever since.

We reached but another interminable light - at which point I began to wonder if I really should've have watched the rest of that game after all. As we sat in the rain and funneled the stations for the usual inaudible high-afternoon mutterings, some crafty chap zips by on the left, a blasphemous violation of both those holy yellow stripes - and our notion of order, not to mention our pride and sense of urgency, mind you. As we inch forward in the early summer drizzle, my uncle reminds me of the civic costs of such an undertaking. "All it takes is one cop - and POOF you're in the slammer for some bullshit you didn't do. You never know with these guys; they got mix-ups all the time. We get pulled over and all they gotta do is screw up their records and BAM you're on the phone with your lawyer and missing your flight. Now, you got any idea how to get to the airport?" Before I can answer, he's driven up the curb and onto the 10 foot wide median separating the four-lane road at the upcoming intersection. He hits the accelerator and we buzz pass the remaining 30-40 cars dutifully inching toward the blinking red light at the intersection. We momentarily pause at the corner, before hitting a hard left onto the perpendicular thorough-fare. "Bunch of suckers," he reminds me, as we scurry on into the horizon and make for the terminal.