Argentina - A Fire Inside
2001/2002 was a tumultuous time in Argentina. People lost their entire life savings overnight, due to the economic collapse. Furious at the corrupt politicians, angry mobs took to the streets in protest. Argentina never recovered from the 2001 crash and many people still struggle to make ends meet.
Just as I turned around, he smacked her full pelt in the face. High as a kite, without thinking, I ran towards him and crushed my lit cigarette into his bare back. He swung round and lashed out at me violently, but luckily I managed to dodge him. By that stage, my friends had arrived on the scene and an almighty street brawl broke out. It was 31st December 2002 in a working-class suburb of Buenos Aires. New Year was supposed to be a time of celebration, but Argentina had just experienced its worst economic crisis in recorded history. The rage and frustration at the country’s politicians had been bubbling under the surface for some time and could no longer be contained. Add high-grade Bolivian cocaine and cheap booze to an already testosterone-fueled gang of twenty-something-year-old males and you can imagine the chaos that ensued. What the hell was I doing there you’re probably asking; a Northern Irish teenager thousands of miles from home getting caught up in South American street brawls. Trust me, I knew I was out of my depth, but cocaine you see, has a way of making you feel invincible. Besides, my original plan had looked somewhat different, but fate had its own ideas.
I never felt anxious about going on big trips, even as an inexperienced eighteen-year-old. If anything, I felt a sense of bravado. I would get a kick out of people’s reactions when I told them I was heading to South America on my own. It made me feel strong and courageous. My teenage years had been a long hard slog. I was a sensitive type who struggled to process emotions. Depressed and misunderstood, I found solace in smoking weed, listening to Nirvana and hanging out with the alternative crowd.
My plan was to take a gap year to Argentina before heading to university in Scotland to study interpreting. My objective was to become fluent in Spanish but secretly it was the freedom that appealed to me most. My parents had arranged for me to volunteer with a church in Buenos Aires called “La Puerta Abierta” (The Open Door Church). Ironically, they gave me the boot a couple of weeks after arriving in Argentina. Apparently there had been some kind of misunderstanding whereby it was presumed that I would attend regular prayer meetings and other church events. As far as I was concerned, I was there to volunteer with impoverished families in the local community. One day, I went out with a friend to get my ear pierced and that evidently was the final straw. The church called my parents, told them that I had been to a nightclub and asked me to leave. They said that I “wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for”. Of course, my parents pleaded for me to come home but I hadn’t fulfilled my objective of becoming fluent in Spanish plus there was no way I was cutting this adventure short. Looking back, I can’t imagine the stress I must have put my parents through, but I respect them for letting me stay. Regarding my feelings towards the church, I felt hurt and angry that they had turned their back on me in such an unfamiliar place especially as I knew no one. But, over time I came to realise that humans make mistakes and they probably assumed that I would go home and not turn the experience into one huge prodigal bender.
A day trip to the zoo; one of my few photos from that time taken with a disposable camera
Over the years I joked about how I went to Argentina to help others but instead ended up helping myself to copious amounts of cocaine; all or nothing action at its best. Until that point, I’d been a serious stoner for a few years, and I took an ecstasy pill once at a Muse concert but that was the extent of my experimentation with drugs. Coke seemed pretty hardcore and wasn’t something I’d planned on doing. Not long after my banishment from the church, I started to hang around with a group of guys from the local area. One of them had a girlfriend who let me crash on her floor for a month or so. Unfortunately, that also came to an abrupt end when I foolishly smoked a joint inside her house one night. Her dad, who was a vet, had been burning herbs some of which I was convinced smelled exactly like weed, so I took the chance. One evening we were tearing about on Kawasaki dirt bikes when Sebastián, the exotic-looking bad boy of our group turned around and said “Quieres probar cocaina?” (“Do you want to try cocaine?”) This is like something from a movie I thought, with the wind blowing through my hair and a potential romance in the air. Of course, the reality of it was a whole other story. Sebastian turned out to be a serious coke fiend and was using me to fund his habit. I soon caught on to his antics and let him loose only to make another coke friend but a significantly more palatable one. His name was Alejandro and although his intentions were admittedly dubious at the outset, we became good friends. For some reason, I didn’t mind sharing with him. It was a kind of exchange. He put up with my incessant talking while coked out of my mind and I would subsidise his habit. Besides, the recent economic crash worked out rather favourably for me, a gram of coke costing around eight quid.
At first, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about with coke but after a couple more tries, I could really feel the appeal. I was on fire, with endless energy and more confidence than I’d ever known. I soon started to love the taste, the smell and everything about it, everything apart from the horrendous comedowns which I usually always made worse by smoking weed. This is when I started to lean heavily into the booze. It eased the anxiety from the coke comedown and helped me to get to sleep. I remember heading back to my bed after heavy nights feeling like shit thinking what my poor parents would think if they knew what I was up to. It didn’t stop me though. It was full steam ahead for the next four months. My days consisted of sleeping in until midday, getting stoned off my head and eating pastries in the afternoon with Alejandro followed by a coke and booze bender at night.
Fuerte Apache; one of the most dangerous ghettos in Argentina and just a stone’s throw from the area where I stayed during my time in Buenos Aires. To the left you can see the unfinished mural of footballer Carlos Tevez, who grew up in there.
On the night of the street fight, about an hour or two after it dispersed, a couple of members of the other gang rolled up along side us in a car as we sat on the pavement drinking and recalling the night’s events. I went straight up to the car window to give them an earful not realising that they had returned with a gun to settle scores. Witnessing the guy punching the girl in the face made my blood boil and I struggled to control my anger. Coke undoubtedly added fuel to the fire. Luckily for me, I’d been having a fling with a local drug dealer who was very much respected in the area. I knew he was a big deal but it wasn’t until I saw him confront the perpetrator one evening that I realised the extent of his influence. The guy was literally quaking in his boots, apologising profusely to the drug dealer for hitting the girl. You could say this saved my skin. I was a novelty you see; tall blonde and foreign. It was very rare to see any foreigners let alone tourists in this area. It had a rough element and a high percentage of unemployed youngsters which meant more restlessness, crime and street brawls. I’m reminded of one area in particular called “Fuerte Apache” also known as “Tierra de nadie” (No Man’s Land”); full to the brim with hardened criminals and so dangerous that even the police wouldn’t dare step foot in it. Entering this district would have been a death sentence for me yet at the time I remember having a morbid curiosity about checking it out. It was the place people cycled to for more drugs in the early hours when the regular drug dealers were no longer available. Thankfully, some sense of self-preservation stopped me from actually going there. Besides, there was enough going on in the area where I lived to satisfy my thirst for authentic “real life” situations. One block away from my host’s house stood a huge city jail called “El cárcel de Devoto”. It had a dark foreboding presence and emanated stagnant energy. Prisoners lined every pane-less window,legs dangling through the bars shouting at passers-by or passing messages to friends and acquaintances on the street. I hated walking past that prison mainly because of the prison guards who jeered down at me from the look-out towers. The conditions there were reportedly so unbearable that the previous year the prisoners attempted to escape through the roof. They even made a popular TV series based on the godforsaken hell hole making it infamous throughout Argentina.
The infamous “Cárcel de Devoto” (Devoto Prison); located a couple of blocks from my host’s house in Buenos Aires.
A group of inmates breaking out the roof of Devoto Prison, demanding to be protected from COVID-19.