Dec 18 protests (2017)

When I travel, most of my days are spent pretty chill. I meet cool people, I read a lot, I walk and explore and have cool adventures. Sometimes, though, random ass bullshit happens and I get caught in the middle of them. 

This is one of those stories. 

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Walking home I was contemplating lots of things:

-What should I eat?
-Why oh why was today Leg day at the gym?
-What my Spanish teacher was saying about this afternoon… A warning? No.. I can’t remember. She’s also one of those that worry about everything.

(ah foreshadowing).

All of a sudden, like a cold front, the attitude of the streets changed. All the shops closed their gates and a weird nervousness started to permeate the city. I ducked into a bar and watched the TV live coverage of protestors taking the streets.

My stomach growled.

I was on Ave. De Julio 9, and I was starving.

I didn’t think a lot about this protest, as there were protests, it seemed, every night. Drums, (terribly out of tune and out of step) bands, chanting, signs, posters, banners… All very typical.

“They would get more attention if they were in tune!” I muttered under my (hangry) breath. The bar wasn’t serving anything except coffee. Guh. Stupid Argentina and their “no dinner before 8pm” cultural thing. Where’s a street food vendor when you need one?

Oh. Look at that! A street vendor!

The streets were getting packed now as I pay for my (frozen) burger (the worst one I ate during my entire trip to Argentina). A tasteless slab of meat served with a side of political angst and hate sauce. More people are in the street now. More drums, more out-of-tune bands, more chanting, more out-of-tune singing. I scarfed the burger down. It did not help the out-of-tune people get better, sadly.

I heard an explosion somewhere. Weird frequencies (a mix of high and lows like I’ve never heard before) and, suddenly, the swarms of people started to run/trample down the streets… I swallow my burger and start running- not wanting to be trampled, my legs protesting from the workout I finished an hour before.

Then, as quickly as it started, the running stopped. The bands started up again (guh!) and the chanting. This time, though, the chanting was more angry.

Broken glass, spray paint tags and trash litter the street as the crowds are basically squeezed through the streets. It’s like a traffic jam – everyone honking their horns, screaming, wanting to be heard- but minus the cars- plus out-of-tune bands and whistles.

We’re in Plaza de Congress now. Explosions are going off everywhere and the whole air smells like burning trash and melted plastic.

I finally look at the people caught in this… All ages- including babies being held by angry parents. Lots of full-sleeve tattoos, olive skin, black hair, summer garb – but also- almost everyone (except me) was wearing scarves around their mouths.

Huh.

The sound is unreal. Organic walla of screams, chants, organic and metal whistles, jeers and stomping/clapping. A helicopter is flying overhead. I turn my bag around to get my phone so I can record it, but as I do, I’m pulled back, just in time, as some poor blood-covered schmuck is holding his face and being pushed through the crowd to, I can only assume, an ambulance(?) medical professional(?).

(Found out later, no. The city didn’t have any of those around.)

A sudden crescendo roar of people happens and then panic sweeps through the people like a tidal wave. Pushing, shoving, (free gropes!) everyone trying to run every which way- and then the cloud of mist coats us and people start to cough, sneeze, and their faces swell up with liquid.

I did not come out unscathed.

My face leaking from every hole, everything hurting, I duck down an alley, cross over, push my way through more (out-of-tune!) trombones and to my airbnb.

Showering was difficult. Laundry was necessary. My whole evening of “let’s just chill, do homework, and drink wine” was shot.

People ask me what the protests were for…. The government is corrupt and voted for terrible retirement rules.
At the time, my sympathy level was really high, but towards the end of my trip of dealing with a lot (too many) Argentian hipster kids being stupidly rude at every campsite, people having no self-awareness at all, and over-all just feeling like I’m a burden on their country by simply existing— I just wanted to escape and never return.

Which is what I did.

 

 

If you know me, I like to keep lists. I had one on-going for “Things Argentina needs to get with it”:

-a non-corrupt government
-Better alternative retirement plans
-Music teachers
-pitch pipes
-food vendors (lots of them)