Las Tres Fronteras
The bus ride from Mar del Plata to Buenos Aires was the most awesome of thunderstorms I ever experienced. The bus ride from Mar del Plata to Buenos Aires was the most awesome of thunderstorms I ever experienced. Open plains of grassland getting lit by the colorful electric currents of lightning. The rain was coming down so heavy that it felt like I was looking out of a submarine. It was an overnight ride that got me to the airport in Buenos Aires for a sunrise flight to Iguazú.
The heavy rains continued, and for precautionary measures the airline delayed the flight until further notice. I found myself sitting with a group of Argentinean MMA fighters. Their tattoos and kickboxing and wrestling physic gave it away. They were boludeando* for laughter and sharing gym wars for a humble spirit. I almost wanted to say something just to be apart of their conversation. But it was comfortable enough just to hang by capable killers. A couple hours later we got the notice to get onboard.
(*Boludeando is Argentinean Castilian for acting up, clowning around, chillin’ with no purpose, etc etc.)
It was the first time I saw a warning sign about jaguars and pumas on the freeway. The driver said that a puma had escaped from the national park. I was aware of this before I left Mar del Plata. The national park had been closed for the last couple of days and there was talk of it partially opening to the public.
I came to this part of Argentina because I knew I could not leave without visiting las Cataratas del Iguazú. The luck of the day and the airline pilot's thoughtfulness allowed for us to see the great waterfalls from the sky. Perhaps that will be the only view I get. The driver dropped me off where we believed was my place to stay for the night. The road was as hard as frozen mud and hot enough to make platanos frito. It didn’t take but a few spins off the luggage wheel for it to break and force me to lift it onto my shoulders.
Not knowing the terrain, I chose to lay my head where the locals stayed. It was a campo with farmland by the highway to las Cataratas. The trip must have grown from a strange childhood dream planted in an episode of “Where in the world is Carmen Santiago?” It’s like I am an adult now trying to find her in the world’s largest channel of waterfalls. Surprisingly, la gente de Buenos Aires are not prone to mention this wonder of Argentina. It’s as if they gave it up to Brazil or Paraguay to tell. I am more likely to hear about the Patagonia before the Cataratas. But in retrospect, this does not differ from a New Yorker raving about the Grand Canyon. You won’t hear a palabra.
Most people ignored me. They looked away. And some from a distance watched me with suspicion. Watched me. I can feel the eyes behind the windows of homes and the pause of a driver figuring me out before the turn.
If I had searched for images of Iguazú online, my guess would have been images of the national park. So when I strolled through with a DSLR on my hip that from afar looked like a canon, not the photo brand, it wouldn’t have come to a surprise that the locals would stare at me with concern.
Most people I spoke to had an air of suspicion about me. It was unlike anything I experienced. Almost like a film where a stranger comes into a town that has a dark secret and the town’s people are wondering if their unknown visitor is a part of that darkness.
There was an empty field. The field itself didn’t interest me as much as the rusty barbed wire between us. It was one of those odd objects that compelled me to snap a picture. In the moment of checking the image, a man pulls out of a truck and asks me what I am doing. He was dressed like a construction worker and had this half gentleman, half gangster demeanor.
I told him I was shooting the barbed wire. His face read, “Why in the fuck would anyone take a picture of some rusty ass barbed wire?” His next questions went right to the suspicion of it all.
“What are you? Narcos? Are you Colombiano?”
I tried to explain that I was just a strange tourist. He gave me a look of disbelief. The kind in which he takes an offense when lied to.
Another man approached us. He didn’t acknowledge me. He hovered behind the gentleman and the gangster. There was a silent killer aura about him. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there and watched the boss continue my cross-examination.
“Are you Brazilian? A trafficker? Vermelho?”
I observed his silent friend in the back. We still made no eye contact. I answered the questions with a negative and then explained that I was an American. He remained in disbelief. I broke into English for him to get the point.
“Americano. You know, New York.”
He paused and figured he had me for a player in the drug game. An epiphany struck him, and he now believed I was on the other side of the game. His questions continued.
“Are you federali? DEA? Where is your ID?”
I had gone out without a passport. Now he had me for a narc. Realizing I was in a quick sand situation, I took the camera out of the holster and showed him the photo I took. Rusty barbed wire. I deleted it. I was several blocks away from where I stayed, but I gave him an idea of my location and invited him and his friend if they wanted to make an entire field trip out of it.
He said no need and walked away without a saludo. Bienvenido a Iguazú.
We first met when I arrived to the spot. The design of the place was like a two-floor cabin. The owner was out discovering himself in India and left me with a contact for getting in the front door. Because I did not have cellular service, I found it a miracle that I could stand outside the door and get a WiFi connection to tell her I arrived.
She dropped off the keys and left. Thinking I would not see her until my departure, it surprised me to find her at the cabin with a friend. It was an entire house to myself. Now I had company to chill with in the heat of the Amazon. I told her about my drug dealer confrontation and how at one moment I was mistaken as a narco, and then the next a narc. Her words translated into something like this:
“Yes! Of course you look like a drug dealer. No one ever seen you here. The tourists are in town and in the hotels. So a chico like you walking around with some high end equipment and sunglasses is super suspect. Plus, your accent!”
Curiosity got the cat. Her dream was to go to America and visit Disney World. It was like a Japanese girl’s wish. She wouldn’t believe my childhood dream if I had told her. I asked her about las Cataratas. Her eyes opened wide as she described the sites of colorful rays of light bending through the air.
She stopped her description and made a cup of cold mate. She must have realized that I would never understand words that require prior initiation. It would take my reincarnation here for me to understand her growing up with one of the seven wonders of the world in her backyard.
She passed me the tin cup and a smile. It was my first sip of cold mate ever.
The owner of the place had traveled to various parts of the world. His recent trip to India sparked her personal desires to see the universe. She began asking me about Japan and all the places I visited. Like her previous answer, my words couldn’t reach the uninitiated.
She updated me with the fact that las Cataratas was still closed because of a puma on the loose. She pointed to Las Tres Fronteras and recommended I stake that out. It struck me later that she liked me.
Shame on me for giving her friend more attention.
Where the campo meets the highway, there was a corner bodega. The man behind the counter was a farmer on crutches. He welcomed me with his pleasant attentiveness and shared his knowledge of the area. I stepped out without a thought on how I would get to las Tres Fronteras. There aren’t subway systems in the rain forest. The farmer was more than happy to call me a cab. He was the first stranger I met that didn’t meet me with suspicion.
The point where Argentina meets Brazil and Paraguay. I once read in a geopolitical article that if these three nations united, the region would be as powerful as the United States and China. It had something to do with the river system among the regions and how trade would make it an economic powerhouse. If Che Guevara wore a business suit, this could have been part of his dream. The United States of Latin America.
7 years have passed since I last met my father. Across the river was Brazil. In a few days, I would meet him there.
There was a man selling handmade bracelets and charms. He looked like an indigenous chief out of a Hollywood film but dressed like a Sunday soccer dad. His ancestors roamed this region long before the European arrival. He spoke Castilian but was multilingual in the language of his tribe in Paraguay and also conversant in the local Iguazú dialect. I might have heard him also say something in English among the Canadians.
During our conversation, people would enter and exit the forest. Curiosity lead me into the trees and further down the hill. There was a small stream that divided Argentina and Paraguay.
It was a small stream. A 10-year-old can hop over it. Niagara Falls must have been its size in the distant past. As the fresh water flowed down below I sat and pondered my new predicament.
The place I called home will no longer be home. It has been 5 years in the world’s most populated city. Grey and blue concrete, tight backstreets, and overcrowded subways. It has been 10 years of back-to-back relationships. A fukubukuro* of love, hate, and indifference. I could use a clear bag of extra space, vegetation, and less crowds. Where ever I decide to call home will likely be outside the capital. Solo.
(*Fukubukuro is a New Year’s Japanese surprise bag.)
Where do borders begin and end? It is more than just imaginary lines on a map. Lines are drawn by our skin complexion, gender, class, occupation, and pain. I won’t even get into the political bullshit.
Here stands a wall which I believed was built in the 1800s. It is the line between Argentina and Paraguay.
The things that separate us also bring us closer together. Black power, feminism, religion. Hell, even the nazis and commies come together. It's like love and hate are just different degrees within the same thermometer.
I doubt this is where one would show their visa to get into Paraguay.
What does it mean to be an Argentinean? Especially one born into another culture or raised in another country. Sometimes the ethics between one another causes conflict. On Argentinean soil, I am a yankee or estadounidense*.
God forbid I say Americano. God forgives cause I say it anyway.
And most Argentinians have never met a Dominican. So without a friend or family given them the yankee notice, they assume I am Colombiano or Brasilero. And most of them are not drug dealers.
It ain't too different on US territory or Santo Domingo. Only the assumptions change. Strangely enough, the first time I felt Americano was among the Japanese. And Japan is where Argentina born Argentinians embrace me like one of their own. The tighter the circle, the stronger the bond.
(*Estadounidense is a United States Citizen. Middle class Argentinians from Buenos Aires refuse to say American because technically everyone in North and South America is American. And then Envy said, “Also the Yankee American’s think they own the continent and the world.”)
Las Tres Fronteras was a bit of a dead zone. Maybe I arrived too late in the evening. Maybe the puma scared away all the tourism. The few tourists I saw looked like they were searching for more of just a corner site. Brazil was in clear visibility but it did not mean much without the twist of an Argentinean caipiriña.
Perhaps the residents prefer it that way. A playground for the kids and no ping pong patong for the adults.
There was something intimate about this path. It makes itself known through the lengthy walks or hard runs. Not just the physical movement of feet, legs, body, but also the mind racing and thoughts pacing about. This path was like a George Foreman grill cooking the ingredients in my mind.
Only time will tell if we got the recipe right.
Luxury.
Is it a state of mind?
There are many with money that floss jewelry, architecture, and the latest technology and fashion. There are many without it that floss their God given talents, sports stats, and the latest political 411. And there are those with money around people that have money. They floss their alumni experiences, tastes in art, and the latest vegan diet.
Does it bring out a desire among their peers?
What am I flossing?
At the bottom of the steps was a stage. It must have been an outdoor hall for concerts and performances. Behind the stage was the river, Brasil, and a rainbow.
As I walked down to the stage, I picked up the scent of Mary J. in the air. Two middle-aged men were passing the time. The atmospheric sense I got was to mind my own fucking business.
It is such a strange place. Where tourism meets the cartel. Buenos Aires has a cop in every buena vista but Iguazú got nada. Yet there isn’t any talk of violence. Could it be that the community regulates itself?
A runner turned into the arena. He made his rounds up and down the stairs. It must be a psychedelic sprint to achieve runner’s high by a river lit up with colorful flairs of light. The thought crossed my mind that the runner could be a narcos. But I don’t know any drug dealers that run marathons.
Before writing, there was drawing.
A visual language that transcends through tribes, nations, races, and borders.
The MMA fighters. The laughter and chatter sounded like a continuation of the same conversation in BA. Talk about dedication. They got off the plane and right onto the track. Iguazú was a small town, yet combat sports and mobsters go hand and hand in both the US and Japan.
As they passed by, they gave me the head nod in recognition of our previous encounter. We never said one word to one another, yet much was communicated.
Iguazú is within the amazon forest. Its waterfalls are listed as one of the wonders of the world. The area has a cultural blend of Argentina and the regions own unique character. There are exotic birds, gorgeous plants, and large predators in both the forest and river. Paraguay and Brazil are around the corner. The community has its beautiful women, kind farmers, respectful gangsters, and visitors from all over the world.
What is it like to grow up here?
At the end of the hike, I reached a bodega with a seating area. I felt exhausted and needed a drink and a chair. The place was closing up shop. Though the chairs were folded up, I was still able to unfold a few pesos for a bottle of water.
I made my way to an isolated statue and sat by it. The sun was setting and people were vanishing with the light. By the time I finished the bottle, I was alone. Yet there was company.
She looked like the indigenous region’s own Mary. Perhaps as a grandmother holding the child of Jesus. Her facial features and complexion reminded me of my mama, a Dominican’s grandmother.
I wondered in a direction that seemed to take me into town. There were a few souls about the streets, but I didn’t bother asking for directions. I didn’t have a destination. Along the trail of mystery there was a church.
Usually, holy sanctuaries have an open door policy. I entered and discovered that it was a catholic church. The outside structure was so modern, it looked to be christian. I wasn’t aware of this boundary on an intellectual level, but I always sensed a difference. It just didn’t matter to me.
The statue of Christ brought me to the front of the cathedral.
I hadn’t believed in God for a long time. It was like the disillusion of Santa. But life has a funny way of taking you to the north pole on a Christmas Eve. Saint Nick and a bloody-nosed reindeer aside, it was hard to say I believed in God. But it had become more difficult to say I didn’t.
My moment of question was interrupted. He was trying to be a gentleman about it. He wanted some money, and I wanted some pictures. So we worked out a deal if he can accompany my walk down the block and allow me to take a photo of him.
We came upon a plaza. It almost felt like I had a guide. I thought I would just take a picture and he would get his pesos so we could part ways. But he had a mouth on him and told me about his life. He wasn’t Argentinean and might have come from Ecuador.
The story was he hitch hiked to Argentina. He lived here for a few years and then made his way into America. He was once married there. Sometimes he would say something in English. He would speak it as if he were trying to both remember a word and an event.
Soon his eyes lit up, and he smiled like a new-born baby in his mother's arms. He spoke about his happiest moment. A trip to Disney Land in California. This was 20 or 30 years ago.
After a few years, he left America and returned to Argentina. I guessed from his hygiene he was homeless. I never asked, but he told. As we hung out in the plaza, other locals would say hello to him and one even gave him a sandwich.
I believed him to be a capable man. It must be hard work to be homeless.
I continued my journey into the dark streets of the town. Eventually I came upon an ave with gift shops that were closing up. I made it into the tourist district.
