Kebab Conscience

I’ve just eaten a kebab. I’m sorry vegetarians but it was delicious, tasty meat juices oozed out the bottom of it whilst I devoured the whole thing like a predator which had recently re-grown its claws.

I know what you’re thinking, Rosie really is running out of ideas for this blog. But I tell you. This was no ordinary kebab. It summed up the most annoying parts of Argentine life in one folded meaty swoop.

I bought it in the Arabian place round the corner, which I’ve passed  everyday for three months and never noted. Upon entering, I delayed my kebab decision whilst I dabbled in the thought of hummus or an Arabian empanada (now there’s a weird idea). Eventually I uttered those fateful words “un kebab de carne por favor, para llevar” (a meat kebab to takeaway) and watched as a rather sexy looking man sliced me off some hunks from the rotating skewer. He added some salad and expertly folded everything together in a tortilla.

Then it began. It was like the part in “Love Actually” where the cheating husband wants to buy a present for his lover and Rowan Atkinson piles on ten layers of crap to the gift whilst the man watches in anguish. I was in a similar position, minus the wife or lover of course. The only guilt I felt was towards my new healthy food diet and clearly that particular emotion had been overridden a good five minutes earlier.

My wrap was first covered in some paper; two pieces which wrapped it up like a parcel. Bewilderingly, for an Arabian place, the paper had pictures of hamburgers all over it. The whole thing was then put into a small plastic bag, one of those sandwich bags for lunch boxes. Later, whilst eating it I understood the plastic bag, all the grease had leaked into the bottom. The paper remained a mystery, it soaked up all the moisture and stuck to said kebab like (hamburger adorned) chewing gum to a shoe.

Next, the entire thing was put into a red cardboard package with the name of the place and “kebab” helpfully written across it. Clearly this was so you could remember which establishment and exact dish had given you food poisoning. Annoying, I thought, but vaguely justifiable. Plus it must give them a bit of advertising, especially if you don’t end up on the toilet the day after. This ingenious package was then put in a brown paper bag, rendering the advertising idea useless.

I’d also bought some hummus in a little plastic pot, telling myself I could dip healthy treats in it for the rest of the week. Of course, this was given similar, though not quite so extortionate treatment, and was given its own brown paper bag. I supposed that two things couldn’t possibly go in one bag? No, they’re right, there was a risk involved, perhaps the humus might somehow leak out of its container and the kebab might jump out of its paper, plastic and cardboard and the two would contaminate one another, which would of course be disastrous.

The two brown bags were about to be put in a bigger plastic one when I halted the process. Now this was ridiculous, I was carrying a backpack! I declined the plastic, to a weird look.

I subsequently made my next mistake; I tried to pay with a 100 peso note (the biggest bill here and worth roughly £15). Although the banks churn out 100s, paying with one is a risky move almost everywhere. Aware of this, I had been clutching my note during the entire process and hoped that this social faux-pas would be seen and noted. I was wrong, I asked if he had change and sexy crazy-package man grinned a sexy packaged smile and told me that no, he didn’t.

We then proceeded to play a common little game enjoyed by shopkeepers all over the city. They say they don’t have change and ask you for some random amount (in this case two pesos). Whilst you root around in your bag, empty the contents of your pockets and pat around your body in a generally moronic way, they remember that they are a business, and if your full body search achieves nothing, change miraculously appears out of whatever hole it had previously disappeared to.

Today, however, this didn’t happen. I played my part (rather well if I do say so myself) but sexy crazy-package man failed to deliver, we both remained changeless and the kebab remained on the counter. Sexy crazy-package man and I grinned at each other in a “this is mildly annoying but I’m still gonna take/sell you the kebab” kind of way (well, that was my interpretation). He gave me 80 pesos back and told me not to worry about the two. I told him I lived close and that I’d come back another day with the two pesos, he laughed and told me not to worry. He then offered me the plastic bag again.

I returned home, ate my kebab and pondered several things, why are people here so oblivious to the huge amounts of packaging they use? Will Argentines ever really recycle, in a way that doesn’t involve people sorting through the rubbish? Will the government ever recognise the problem? Why is there never any change? Ever? How is it possible that there’s change at the bank and not in the shops? If I went back with the two pesos would the sexy man still be there? Would my boyfriend allow me a hummus date with the kebab man? Was he really the whole package?

Wanting More

Why is it that the happiest people I’ve ever met lived in huts in Africa, without running water and at risk of dying of terrible diseases. Why is it that those in the rich country I hail from are constantly complaining, no money, need new jeans, want a bigger car, a better house. When they get the bigger house they need stuff to fill it, when they get the new jeans they need some new shoes to match, then they need a new bag, some fancy make up. It never stops.

Having experienced living in both worlds and deciding that I would prefer the less over the more I have experienced this clash of belief systems first hand. Now, I live in a halfway house, Buenos Aires, which has most of the luxuries of the first world if you can afford them, whilst thousands still live in stark poverty. Seeing poverty is such a part of normal life here that most people (myself included) have become completely desensitised, thinking nothing of stepping over a person sleeping on their doorway. This means that poor people are left to fend for themselves, made worse by a government that does not do enough to help. While those in power keep their money and riches to themselves, what motivates an ordinary Argentine to give away what they earn?

Five days a week I walk five blocks from my apartment to the subway on the way to work. I walk out of my door and step out onto the uneven neglected pavement. Walking along it I pass several people sleeping in doorways, and others selling stuff on the street to survive, socks, umbrellas, earrings and a man with no legs who sits in his wheelchair and sells mobile phone cases.

Yesterday evening I was walking to the bus stop when I saw a little girl of about four drawing with a felt tip pen, she was utterly engrossed in what she was doing and was drawing a happy little scene, flowers and a sun. At that age I too spent my days drawing, in my own sketch pad. She was drawing in a fat marker on a shop window. It appears that the tabloids are right, graffiti artists really are getting younger these days.

On my way to work I get on the subway and watch other people who have already arrived at work. Some busk, some sell stickers or chewing gum, some simply beg. There’s a blind man I often see who calls out his same plea over and over “señores pasajeros, una ayuda” navigating his way through the carriage holding onto the bar above and rattling his cup, slipping any money he does get into the pocket of his worn jacket.

Often, the workers are children and the youngest I’ve seen must’ve only been about five. A hard-faced ten year old passes out stickers like she’s been doing it her whole life, a five year old boy sings loudly and out of tune before asking for change. These kids break my heart. I often buy from them, but not always. And why is that? Why is it that I don’t give each child as much as I can? Why don’t I give them half my wages? All my wages? Sometimes I want to save my change for the bus, but instead of giving a note I give nothing. It’s not just me either; millions of people ignore. Thousands are ignored.

Because I am well aware of the fact that one of these days I will need to pack up my belongings and fit them in a rucksack, I don’t own that much here in Argentina. I do however live near a main shopping street and I often get compulsions to treat myself to something new, a new pair of shoes, a top, something totally unnecessary like strawberry smelling moisturiser.

I try not to give in to consumer culture too much. I’ve not bought anything recently, and the other day felt upset as I was talking to a friend. I said that Argentine women always look immaculate (which is true) and I wished I could be like that (sort of true) she said she thought I didn’t care about clothes. The idea that I look like I don’t care kind of horrified me. Part of me would like to have lots of clothes, to look lovely all the time. But on the other hand she’s right. I know that there are more important things in life, I know the disposable nature of consumer goods, I’ve seen and read “Confessions Of A Shopaholic”, I know the dangers of credit cards and getting a store card for 10% off. I’d also rather have 10 minutes extra in bed than get up and do my hair.

In England, I usually ignore these anti-consumer feelings and crumble under peer pressure, it’s just too strong. All my friends have new pretty dresses for our night out (where we waste our money on alcohol that makes us act like idiots and feel like shit the next day). I want a dress too so I get one, and I buy another drink because if I don’t they all ask me what’s wrong and force me to do a shot.

It’s a sad world we live in, where the need-want balance is so completely distorted. I don’t like that society turns our wants into needs and forces us to conform to an ugly culture of consumerism. I also don’t like that in countries where many people don’t have even their basic needs met, this culture still exists and creates an even bigger gap between the rich and the poor. As I said, the happiest people I’ve ever met were the poorest. If their needs were met, would they still be happy? Or would they just want more?