Teacher on Two Wheels

Above: Me with David and his family. Saturday 1/17/09 San Martin, Argentina

Flying along through the endless flatness of the Argentine pampa, lost in the weirdness of the lyrics of a Neutral Milk Hotel album, I was startled when I spotted a police van pull in front of me and slam on its brakes. I stopped behind it. Two cops approached me and asked me where I was heading, where I started riding, what I had in my trailer bag. I assumed I broke some law, that bikes weren’t allowed on the highway or something. It wasn’t until the questions ended that I realized I had done nothing wrong.

One cop, a massive wall of a man with a mischievous grin, satisfied with my answers, turned to me and said in Spanish, “OK! Let’s go! We are going to have a BBQ with some of the other cops and you have to come. Do you want to put the bike in the van or do you want to follow us to the station?”

*****

Behind the Special Forces building in the San Martin Police building complex is a recreation area that gets used every Saturday. Once a week, on and off-duty officers gather around the BBQ pit for a three-hour lunch. Pounds and pounds of meat sizzle on the grill. Cavernous communal bowls are filled with salad. A five-liter jug of wine, one that takes two hands to lift, is placed in the center of a long picnic table.

As the officers eat, they crack jokes and talk about work, local gossip, and, occasionally, murders that are baffling nearby police squads. Because I was the BBQ rookie at the table, and because I was from a country many of the officers had an interest in, much of the conversation involved me answering questions about this subject or that. At one point, one officer asked me for my opinion about Las Islas Malvinas, or, depending on who you are speaking to, the Falkland Islands. In Argentina, these islands are a point of pride and sadness, the struggle of their ownership between Argentina and England representing not just land or economic benefit but identity, as well.

David, the officer I met out on the highway who invited me to the BBQ, picked up his steak knife.

“Look here,” he said, digging his steak knife into the soft, old wood of the picnic table. He started scratching lines into the table’s surface. “This is Argentina. And these are the Malvinas Islands. Here,” he pointed to a small group of squiggly circles near the edge of the bottom of a squiggly continent. “And this here, this all the way over here, this is England.” He scratched a jagged oval 10 or 12 inches away to the right, far from the Argentina squiggles. “See how far away this country is from the Malvinas?” All the officers laughed. “Now, what do you think, who deserves these islands–Argentina or England? Who is the owner and who is the invader?”

*****

As lunch wound down, David asked me what my plans were for the afternoon.

“Well, I have lots of energy now after such a huge lunch,” I said in Spanish, “so I’m going to try to ride another 60 or 70 kilometers.”

David frowned.

“No, no. Come on, it’s Saturday! Relax!” he said. “Here’s what you’re going to do: First, you’re going to come with me to the museum in San Martin. The museum is in San Martin’s old house. You know who San Martin is, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Yeah, San Martin was the guy who–”

“He was one of the most important men in Argentina’s history! And he lived here, in this little town!” David yelled, cutting me off. “General San Martin is responsible for liberating Argentina from European control. So you have to see where he lived. After that, I’ll take you to my nephew’s baptism. We’ll eat some more. Then, tonight you can come back to my house, sleep, and tomorrow you leave. After breakfast, of course,” he said smiling.

I had only done 50 kms. (30 miles) that morning and really wanted to put in some more distance before calling it quits for the day, but David was right: Seeing the sights in his tiny little pampa town was more important that traveling for a few more hours that day.

I accepted his invitation.

*****

David, 44, moved into his quaint home on a quiet street 20 years ago. When he sits in a chair on the sidewalk in front of his house–shirt off, glass of Coke in hand, eyes focused on the street and all the cars and people passing in the late afternoon heat–he does so like a mayor attending a local parade.

He waves to and greets the old man on the bicycle, the one with cartons of eggs in his front basket. (“He’s 92-years-old. Still riding!” David tells me once the man cruises past.)

He asks the two kids on bikes, the ones chasing each other in circles in the street, how their school year is going. One kid is soaked with sweat and David pours him a small glass of Coke. The kid sits there and drinks it, staring at the street, just like David.

His neighbor emerges from his house to get something from his car and David yells out to him, “Enrique, come here, meet this crazy guy riding his bicycle all over the place!” Enrique comes over and David tells him all the details of my trip, correctly recalling everything I had told him hours earlier.

*****

When it came time to sleep, after finishing off the last of the homemade pizzas David’s wife prepared for dinner, I started bringing my things into the home’s office. David grabbed my shoulder.

“Are you crazy? You can’t sleep in there. Here, this is your room,” he said, turning me around and pushing me in the direction of the room he shares with his wife.

“I can’t take this room, it’s yours!” I said. “Please, really, I don’t mind–”

“No, don’t be silly,” David interjected. “You’re our guest. Please, sleep here.”