Late Afternoon Reflections on a Bus

By Anne DeCecco

“ El olvido no es victoria sobre el mal ni sobre nada y si es la forma velada de burlarse de la historia, para eso está la Memoria, que se abre de par en par en busca de algún lugar que devuelva lo perdido… “ - Mario Benedetti (see endnote 1)

It’s late afternoon and I’m making my long bi-weekly journey on the bus en route to Vicente López. I’ve gotten on the 152 at Rodríguez Peña and M.T. de Alvear, which ventures slowly out of the heart of the city towards the province. I climb over some people and manage to secure a seat for myself towards the back of the bus, next to the window. As I settle down for the hour-long ride, I go to look for my discman in my bag and realize I’ve forgotten it at home. Damn. Now, without music to block out all the offensive city noises of traffic and people, I start to feel annoyed. The five o’clock sunlight seems to magnify itself through the dirty bus window just to spite me. There’s a man behind me who chatters incessantly with an obnoxiously high voice, and the guy next to me is chewing his gum with an open mouth, snapping his jaw open and closed in an infuriating rhythm. This movement only seems to confirm my first impression of him as one of your typically arrogant city guys. I look him over out of the corner of my eye: his business-casual clothing and expensive watch, complemented by an American-style haircut. Without music to distract me, I’ve resorted to (admittedly judgmental) people-watching as the constant late afternoon hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires wears on me.

The bus stops. It seems to be inevitable at this hour of the day that the buses follow their trajectories with each time more people getting on, and never anyone getting off. From my spot I look out between the perfectly sculpted hair-dos of older women and the shoulders of the men who are standing up, and I am able to make out some of the faces of those who are getting on at the front. I notice that there’s a young guy there, about college-age, still in the doorway, with a guitar in hand. Great, I think to myself. Without the protection of headphones you just can’t travel in peace, what with every crazy guy who wants to go singing on the buses and subways. The kid passes to the middle of the bus, close to the exit door, and introduces himself to his captive audience, explaining to their indifferent faces that he’s going to play “two songs that I’m sure you’re all going to like.” I continue with my pessimism as he plays the first soft and hesitant notes. But, when he begins to sing, I snap my head up in attention. I know this song. It’s Maná, the popular Mexican rock group, and the song is “Desapariciones” or “Disappearances.” I think to myself, what is going on? Is he really playing this song? Surely it’s a mistake and in a second he’s going to stop and apologize, saying he’d forgotten which song he was going to play and then quickly switch to another tune. But the kid goes on, singing each word more boldly than the last, with a nice voice and confidence in what he’s expressing. “Que alguien me diga si han visto a mi hijo/ es estudiante de pre-medicina/ se llama Agustín y es un buen muchacho/ a veces es terco cuando opina/ lo han detenido, no sé que fuerza/ pantalón claro, camisa a rayas/ pasó anteayer.… I quickly look around to survey the people’s reactions. One woman who was standing near the singer appears to have a worried expression on her face as she moves towards the back of the bus.

However, after watching her for a moment I consider that maybe she’s just one of those people who wear a worried expression throughout life, and I decide to keep looking for more subjects to study the reactions to such a daring act. The guy next to me is playing with his high-tech cell phone, text messaging and fiddling with the menus. Looking around further, I find the typical reaction of porteños (The term for the people of Buenos Aires, the city. Literally, it means “port-dwellers.”) in public transit: disinterest, annoyance with the musical interruption of their thoughts, the attempt to look away so as to avoid feeling obligated to give the singer a few coins after the show is over. Nothing that would signal anything out of the ordinary, that could possibly let me draw nearer to the feelings that the Argentine people have with regard to the last military dictatorship and its memory. No trace of emotion in the faces or in the movement of bodies to guide me. And I think, in this country where only 22 years ago approximately 30,000 citizens were disappeared, there exists a palpable, living silence on this issue that fills me, as a foreigner, with curiosity. There is an unspoken rule to not speak, a mute curtain that seems to divide these people, in the midst of their busy days of rushing around from one place to another, from so painful a past. As I think this, the next phrase being sung surfaces in my mind: “tiro de escopeta y de revólver/ carros acelerados frenos gritos/ eco de botas en la calle/ toque de puertas por dioses platos rotos/ estaban dando la telenovela/ por eso nadie miró pa’ fuera…” (see endnote 2) The singer-kid, probably around 22 years old himself, sings about our distraction from and denial of the reality that surrounds us—a practice which was common during the dictatorship not only in Argentine society, but also in the international community—to these blank faces that stare out the windows and yawn.

The buses in Buenos Aires are like their own little encapsulated worlds. Each one is packed with so many strangers, yet at the same time is a personal space where each traveler is transported through the city and through his day wrapped up in his own reflections. I travel in this shared space of private thoughts trying to puzzle through an elusive history and the tangible but silent pain it has left behind, while it’s likely that the next passenger who sees me will take me for yet another Argentine face in the crowd. But meanwhile, as we journey on, being displaced in space and time, I think to myself: it’s only now, after having lived a year in this country and a few days before my departure, that by coincidence I’ve come across a demonstration of inquietude concerning the events of the past, and a reclamation of memory amidst the oblivion of a late afternoon turned almost-dusk. I feel a certain strange appreciation for having been able to glimpse beyond that curtain for just a moment. And upon dropping a few coins into the kid’s guitar case as I’m about to get off, I think of how fitting it is that I hear him begin to sing the first lines of his next song— “Hay que volver a empezar…” (see endnote 3)

Anne DeCecco recently graduated from Smith College with a degree in Spanish Language and Literature.

Endnotes

*Note to the reader: All translations are my own.

1. This song was originally written by the Mexican musician Rubén Blades. Many people are more familiar with Maná’s performance of it. The theme of disappearances is pertinent to many Latin American countries, including Mexico, as it has been used as a fear tactic by government and military forces, as well as local power groups. The disappearances in Argentina during the dictatorship of 1976-1983 represent one of the most massive occurrences of this tactic.

2. Shots from shotguns and revolvers /cars accelerating, braking, screams/the echo of boots in the street/ knocks on doors, oh-my-gods, broken plates/ the soap opera was on TV/ that’s why nobody looked outside.

3. An expression similar to “We have to start over again”. Literally: We have to go back to begin.