Chauffering Street Kids - Day 1

I'd love to explain why I'm swerving through the chaotic tangle of Argentine traffic in the blazing sun with three former street kids and a five year-old in a white VW Gol. But, I'm not going to. I can only concentrate on this one thought right now, “Do not crash.”

My last encounter with driving a manual was in the calm, beach town of Maldonado, Uruguay, where I hit a parked car. Now, I'm in the midst of the lawless, corrupt cop, jumbled maze of Buenos Aires, speeding through red lights and straining to hear the directions mumbled in Argentine slang from Jesús over the blasting reggaeton music. Occasionally, Jesús points to an area - that's where he slept under the highway – that's where he used to beg for money – here's the fountain he and Wilson bathed in as kids. Wilson is Jesús' best friend, companion, and, behind his back, “slave”. They've been together through it all. It all, including watching friends die, go to jail, and waste away to drugs. Today, though, they're looking for an apartment. I'm the driver. And I don't have a clue where I am. Jesús points around – this is one of the really dangerous areas. Okay, now I know where I am. Thank you, Jesús.

As I shift the little white hatchback into third gear, Jesús points right, “Acá, acá!.” Here, here. I hesitate; he motions me to park in the street, smoky traffic barreling behind me. He hits the flashers. “Ya está.”. There we go. He hops out and runs in the renter's office. Wilson and William rest calmly in the back as massive buses attempt to swerve around me and my flashing car to pick up and drop off swarms of people. I'm in their spot. William's little girl, Rosia, smiles in the back seat with her crooked teeth and her thin curly hair bouncing on her forehead. “Do not crash.”

Jesús jumps in the car. He has a lead on a place on the outskirts of the city. He flicks the music back on, the CD is now on its third time around; I'm learning lyrics to songs I've never even heard before. I put the car in first gear, second gear - red light - neutral, coast, stop. “This isn't too hard,” I think. Which is an example of what to think when you want the universe to chuckle and toss you in the lion's den. Which, in Buenos Aires, is 9 de Julio, the fourteen-lane road stretching through the center of town.

Hundreds of cars cram themselves down this road every hour. On the map, the road is straight. On the map, the roads are also empty. Neither is true. 9 de Julio curves. It curves around statues. It curves around the giant obelisk. It curves around logical and reasonable roadway blueprints. Yet, each time the road curves, the cars refuse. The painted path ordained by the government becomes obsolete and a new pattern emerges, known only by drivers who have experienced the hell that is Buenos Aires traffic. Turn signals become Christmas ornaments, nothing more than decoration. Horns are like elbows, nudging people aside with an unfriendly “honk”. I've never felt so strange about feeling guilty about being the only person to stay in lane.

We curve in and out, narrowly avoiding a car that decides to turn left from the right lane. We watch as cars speed through red lights, or move through the intersection before the lights turn green. Meanwhile, Jesús is talking on the phone, only gesturing when I ask, “derecha o izquierda?” Left or right? I'm fifteen years old again, and the driving instructor couldn't care less if this is my first time driving and I have the power to cut off a giant tour bus, knock it into the pedestrian street, and manslaughter hundreds.

Clearly, I don't do that. Instead, I opt to swing onto a side-street, nearly avoiding denting the hood with pedestrians. A cop on the sidewalk watches. Luckily, he's on his cell phone and lets it slide. Then, Jesús motions me to park only a few car lengths from the cop, so he can check another renter's office. You mean, this spot right here? In front of the ambulance? With the no parking sign? With the cop in walking distance? Hold on, I remember the secret escape clause to violating any traffic ordinance. Flashers on. We're good Jesús. We're good.

After nearly three hours of perusing the city and risking many lives at every stoplight (most didn't know they we're risking their lives), and seeing only one apartment, we took a break so Jesús could stop and see his psychiatrist. I thought maybe I should join him. Something must be wrong with me to drive around dangerous parts of a corrupt city with three street kids, a five year old, and limited experience driving a manual transmission in a rental car I didn't pay for. I have to stop looking confident when people ask if I can do something. Sir, you look like you could land this space shuttle... Yes. Yes I can.

In case you missed it, we spent three hours, in the hottest part of the day, apartment shopping, and only saw one apartment. I love Argentina. I don't think I can explain what I do here. This is my job and my life right now, and I'm only in second gear. Tomorrow, I hit the highway.