The last leg (Part I)

Salta was as far north as I was to get in Argentina. That's why I was there: to cast the invisible line of my journey to Argentina's northern banks, some hours short of Bolivia. Two weeks remaining and with my overall objectives met, I became a true tumbleweed in the Northern territories of Argentina and Chile. Aimless, the oars slipped from my hands and I turned my trip over to the tides of fate. Fate seems to bloom in the midst of random decisions, so I embarked on the 22 hour bus ride from Mendoza to Salta on a whim.

Aboard the bus, tortured by blaring 80's Latin pop and the unremitting whistle of overhead airconditoning, I befriended two birds from Australia and England sitting across the aisle, Lucy and Elle. When landing in Salta the next afternoon, we checked into the same hostel and we're lucky to share a three bed room. As hostels go, three person rooms are a rarity. Staying in one, especially with mildly familiar folks, is a backpacker's night at the Ritz.

Normally, I book a bed in the ten or twelve person rooms, as required by my peso to peso budget. While the exact arrangement may vary, these cramped rooms are what you imagine of early submarine layouts. A slender corridor cluttered by disemboweled packs divides sets of bunk beds lining each wall. The normal sleeping protocol is foot to head with your neighbor. Anyone, backpacker or not, can picture the conditions of such overpopulated sleeping quarters. Beyond the obvious annoyances of snoring and gas, there is the more subtle difficulty of finding one's breathing rhythm. The night's silence is sewn with the room's combined whisper of oxygen being turned into carbon dioxide. Settling into one's own presleep meditation is continually compromised by the room's irregular breath. Exhaustion overcomes all, however, and drags a backpacker to the depths of unconscious.

In truth, the nights in these rooms are not bad compared to the mornings. Waking, the skin glistens greasy with a film of humidity. The air is thick with a rhechid stench so potent it crawls deep into the nostrils, onto the tongue, then drips down the throat triggering the gag reflex. It is a smell not easily shaken from the senses: body odor, filthy clothes, gas, all marinating in a asphyxiating stew of carbon rich air. Needless to say, when you're up, you're up.

Lucy and Elle motivated me to be a tourist in Salta. We visited a museum where an exhumed child mummy was on display. Inca culture ritualistically sacrificed beautiful children from the community's wealthy class in an effort to please the gods and hopefully be blessed with good harvests. The chosen one would be chauffeured throughout the village where she would be adored by the masses. She was then led in a caravan up into the mountains, a journey which could take months. When they neared the summit, the Inca elders would get the child drunk and unconscious. She was then buried alive on the summit. While the scene was morbid, I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of how horrid that hangover must have been. Waking up from her first big night out, head splitting, wondering if she did something embarrassing; only to open her eyes and find she's been buried alive.

After the museum, with appetites ablaze from viewing the well preserved corpse, we had lunch at an outdoor cafe. The scene was very much like that of Mendoza: smartly dressed waiters, European-like diners , umbrella shaded tables. Yet the conspicuous face of Salta's impoverished set it apart. The poor stumbled from table to table, a sign often strung around their necks. Most suffered sever handicaps, laboring over each step, backs painfully bent. A women with black teeth, shaking anxiously from some addiction, came over and handed us a pamphlet about mother's with AIDS. We each handed over some spare pesos.

Beholding Salta's poor made me realize that I have never meditated on poverty enough to come to personal terms with it. With the reaches of poverty so far extended, where do I start to address the situation? Do I give money to each person who needs it? Do I work through some broader organization who knows how to allocate money better and meet the need more effectively? Just as these thoughts swam in my mind, a scene unfolded before me that began to address these troubles.

A young boy had come up to a man asking for money. Children are put on the streets by their parents very early, often wielding stickers or playing cards to sell. The man pulled out a chair for the boy, split his pizza with him, and had the waiter bring the boy a coke. The boy sat in the metal seat, his feet dangling below. He cautiously and neatly placed his wallet and cards on the table. With visible satisfaction he sipped the coke patiently from its old fashion glass bottle. The man sat there, his seat angled just away from the table allowing him to cast one leg over the other, engaging the boy in conversation. While the scene did not answer all my questions, it made me realize that on the most basic level poverty must be met human to human. While I cannot give to each who ask and need, I can treat them with the dignity that all humans fundamentally deserve.

MOM & DAD: Im leaving Punta del Diablo tommorow for Montevideo. Then following day I will get back to Buenos Aires. Three days three then home. My flight lands in Boston April 2nd around 1030 think (but I will solidify these specifics when I get a phone to call you from). All is well! Cant wait to see you! Love Robbie