If there is a way to ‘innocently’ find a red-light district in a city, I did it last week in Buenos Aires. I had a little fiesta to go to about four kilometres away at my friend Felizia’s apartment. I had been there several times so I knew how to get there perfectly. It was about 7:30 in the evening and already dark. On walking to the bus stop and seeing three of my preferred buses, the 93’s, drive past without stopping, I decided to ‘challenge myself’ and do things differently. I knew that the 130 went in the general direction of Felicia’s apartment, so I made the foolish decision to back my judgment (and my Spanish) and board the bus to the dark side.
For those readers who are unaware of my inability to give/follow/take street directions. This story will provide a good example. Normally a Taxi from my place to the location I was headed cost about $30 pesos. Not much. Although a bus ticket costs $2.70. A solid saving.
The journey started off quite well, the bus went in the direction I expected it to. However I soon realised that I had absolutely no idea which stop to get off. In Spanish this expression is: ‘Estuve como un perro en una cancha de bochas.’ Translation: I was like a dog on a boché field (boché is that odd french hobby/sport). It is an excellent saying, and not the only time it will be used in reference to me for 2014.
Anyway, I braved the bus driver conversation and asked him where I should get off for my desired location. As much as my Spanish has improved, I swear that bus drivers speak a different dialect. All I gained from the conversation was a series of hand signals that I gathered meant ‘you should not have taken the bus in the first place, what the f*** were you thinking gringo’. Helpful. Or maybe it was literally lost in translation. I am more inclined to believe the latter.
I decided to get off and trust pedestrians. They are always helpful. I noticed I was on the edge of a large park that had people jogging, walking the dog and generally just hanging out. It looked fine. So I strolled through there, knowing that I was going in the general direction of my final destination. Quite a few cars were driving through the area, but not quickly, it was as if they were looking for something. All of a sudden, the amount of joggers seemed to thin out, the trees came closer to the road and it got dark. Really dark. I could here whispers from unseen faces; “Quieres coca Gringo?” (coca is cocaine, not the cola). The a car about twenty metres in front of me stopped. I backed my pace right off, not wanting to walk up to it, and also not wanting to leave the safety of light posts that inadequately lit the road.
A person stepped out, and she was stunning. Beautiful long legs that just kept going and going and…. going? Hang on. Where was the dress? The trousers? There were none. Just an excuse for a g-string. Things got weird quickly, I skirted around the car (where the was an obvious transaction taking place), and took off, not running but definitely power-walking. All of a sudden they were everywhere; girls with trench coats and nothing else, men with dark glasses, flash cars. Obviously I had unintentionally discovered the red-light district of Buenos Aires. In the middle of a tree-lined park. What are the chances. There are hundreds of parks, plaza and green areas in BA and I had the luck to stroll through the only one that had a bunch of hookers and drug-pushers were spending the time.
The odd thing was there was hardly any noise. Just whispers, it was extremely creepy and the first time I felt a prickle of fear in Argentina. I had been looking for a taxi for about ten minutes whilst continuously ploughing through the forest of debauchery. No luck. There was no way in hell that I was going to ask a friendly stranger for directions, so I just carried on, humming some kind of happy tune in my head. Finally a lone taxi approached, I sprinted out to the middle of the road and start doing something akin to star-jumps in the middle of the road. I must have looked like some kind of weirdly possessed Jane Fonda to onlookers. The driver slowed, then stopped, I collapsed into the car and locked the door. The driver turned around and said with the widest smile I have ever seen; ‘It’s a bit early to be walking through the zona roja gringo. You should come back at around 3am when things start to pick up.’
Probably not, I thought as we drove off. The taxi ended up costing $40 pesos. More than what it would have if I had of just taken one from my apartment. Well played Hugh, well played.
Hugh's Lost 