Buenos Aires - Part 4

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THE HOUSE IN BUENOS AIRES

A large house can be a double-edged sword, bringing comfort or disquiet.
I’ve got a spacious bedroom, a large dining room, and even a sitting room with a window. The ceiling in the dining area is very high (about 18 feet), and it’s made of plexi-glass, which means there is an immense amount of light filtering in. This feature is perfect during the Spring season (which began in September), but later in the year Buenos Aires becomes an inferno, with temperatures soaring into the 90s with high humidity. For now, however, things are great, except for the cats.

Because of the plexi-glass roof, my evenings are filled with the sounds of cats traversing my neighborhood. Further, in order for them to get down to my rooftop, they have to drop about a meter (three feet) from a higher structure. Each visitor brings a jolt to the human who lives below.

Sometimes when I’m in bed under the covers I find myself in that lovely semi-sleep state, just about to doze off, when the flexing rooftop in the next room makes a sudden crack. There are other night-time sounds too. The neighborhood where I live is semi-industrial, with a small factory two doors away, with people going in an out at odd hours. Additionally, every house in Buenos Aires - every house -- has barred windows and a steel door. That means a nighttime arrival or early morning departure from my building is accompanied by various metallic, banging sounds.

For me, coming home means inserting and turning four large keys, two for the external, steel-framed door, and another two for the thick, wooden door behind it. There is more safety in having multiple keys, but it also opens you up to being mugged while you’re standing at your doorway with your back to the sidewalk. Typically, when a taxi brings me home at night (sometimes it’s 3 or 4 in the morning in this nocturnal place) the driver waits in the car while I unlock both doors and enter the house. If, however, I have taken a bus or walked home, then it’s a matter of keeping my eyes peeled for 200 or 300 meters in all directions to gauge whether there is danger lurking.

In terms of security, bars and thick doors aren’t the only measures taken by the locals. In the upper crust neighborhoods, the houses all have alarm systems. Unfortunately, nothing is full proof. For instance, there is the possibility that the same people who install the unit are running a crime ring. Another prevalent safety measure is the use of security guards posted in small booths on residential streets. These booths are less than three feet long by three feet wide, with tinted windows. They are made of wood and resemble small outhouses. The locals ask themselves, though, “How do I know the guy assigned to guard my block isn’t the eyes and ears of criminals?”

My own nervousness has relaxed a lot since I first got here, but the locals do a good job of not letting me forget I live in a wild place. I was recently looking for a store in my neighborhood, when I asked a young local and his girlfriend for directions. It was only 9:30 pm, and he answered my query this way: “It’s straight ahead three blocks, but be careful.” I wanted to respond “What the hell am I supposed to do?! Walk there with a samurai sword, or pull the pin on my hand grenade?”

Despite all the crime that exists here, I have been in Baires for eight weeks, and I have not been the target of a single malevolent act. For that I am grateful. Perhaps I have been lucky, and perhaps my size and carriage help a bit too. By contrast, I have heard of countless cases where women young and old are targeted by muggers. Apparently the thieves in Baires are looking for the path of least resistance. I hate bullies. Still, I may never know why I have had zero problems with criminals while here in Baires. But last week things changed…

It was 2 AM and I was particularly tired, having slept little the past couple of nights. I lay in my bed and almost immediately became aware of the noises of the dancing felines on the plexi-glass. While I’m awake I can easily see what’s happening on the rooftop. But when I’m in the bedroom with the lights turned off I have no idea who or what is responsible for the ruckus. On more than one occasion Ive been rattled by a loud sound that has caused me to get out of bed and walk straight into the dining room, feeling certain that I would have to face an intruder with my bare hands. I have no idea what I would be capable of if confronted by an intruder in my own house.

Recently I was told by a neighbor that in August a man who lives on the block parallel to mine had his house burglarized. He was home when it happened, and the crooks were better prepared than he was. They arrived with poisons which they poured into rags and then draped over the victim’s mouth, causing him to pass out almost instantly. He remained unconscious while they plundered his house and stole everything.

So on this night, as I lay down at 2am, I had no way of knowing those banging sounds were not the work of felines. This time the culprits were much larger life forms.

I went into the dining room because the sound I heard almost seemed to be coming from upstairs. I looked up at the plexi-glass. Not a cat in sight. Toward the back of the house, upstairs, there is a terrace which I consider the soft underbelly of the house. If a burglar were to enter the house from the rooftop, though, he would have to get through a locked door first, and I’d have a few seconds warning before the lower premises were penetrated. Also, the upstairs terrace offers the best vantage point of the main entrance to the house - on the street level. I decided that I needed to get up there quickly and take a look around. It’s better to meet your enemy in his own territory rather than deeply within your own. With nothing but a flash light and adrenaline, I walked up the stairs, hoping to get a jump start on whoever was up there, yet praying that this whole episode was just a nightmare.

Quietly I crept. The flashlight not turned on yet. I reached the door and didn’t hear a sound. My pulse was out of control at this point. THEN, again! There was a loud banging, and it did NOT come from a cat walking on plexi-glass. It was too loud, too metallic, too measured. Were they already on the terrace? Shit….

I went back downstairs, feeling the need to grab my cell phone and call the police. In a short time I would find out indeed there were prowlers in my midst, but at that early moment I was not 100% sure. I hesitated, not knowing if the police would give a damn about “suspicious sounds.”

I headed upstairs again, this time with the phone tucked into the band of my shorts, yet not wanting to dial it because I’d lose the element of surprise. I was so conflicted. I waited, crouched by the door. Keys at the ready. I prepared to unlock the door and swing it open, knowing full well that if I found someone up there I could not turn back. No running. No hiding. Just raw confrontation. Silently I held the three loose keys in my palm, careful not to make a sound. I inserted the fourth key into the lock, making only an imperceptible sound. At this point I neither heard nor felt stirring on the other side of the door. I was soo… relieved, as I was not craving a close-up meeting with the burglars.

Now was the time to accelerate. I unlocked the door and swung it open loudly, yelling something in the process. “Que carajo hacen alli!?” (“What the hell are you doing here?!”)

And then, silence. It was just the terrace and myself up there. I sighed.

Then again, the loud banging. I had clarity this time, as I could identify its location. There! Down on the street! I ran to the edge of the terrace for a closer look. The burglars had violently pulled the brass handle off the front door to the house. The sound they made was like a battering ram breaking down a threshold.

They ran and I knew there was nothing I could do. Slowly I went back downstairs, wondering how safe the house would be now, vulnerable without its front door knob. Hopefully that’s all they came for. I shut my eyes but my body kept me fidgeting nearly all night.

Next stop, Cordoba….

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