La Ferreteria

My favourite place in Buenos Aires is not the milonga, nor is it the steak house, and it is most definitely not the obelesico. No, mine is a pleasure that back home I’d consider a chore. The fruit and veg shop, the stationary store and the place you get your clothes fixed proved tough competition but somewhere else has won the battle. If all human life gathers at the dump in England and the The Market in Bolivia, then BA’s equivalent must be la ferreteria. The Americans say the hardware store, I don’t even know what the British call it  (it’s easier if you live in Trowbridge, then it’s Knees), but here it is ferreteria, where wrongs can be righted and no job is too small.

From the outside, window displays are feats in themselves. At my local (you heard it here first, hardware is the new beer) hairdryers are stacked next to jumbles of wires, on top of cutlery, balanced between bike locks and watering cans. I used to feel afraid of these places, which I felt sure were man’s worlds full of things I didn’t understand.

One day I was forced to face my fear to get some keys cut, and I was right, I don’t understand, but it’s not scary. Although the Aladdin’s caves makes me realise I don’t know half the vocabulary that surrounds me, (how do you say potato masher in Spanish? Or spanner? Broom?) this only serves to make me feel an odd mix of humble and curious. These objects are hung from all angles in a seemingly random order which I feel sure has a secret design. Not only do I respect this ordered muddle but I also admire the people amongst it who amicably help with questions and are accurate in their answers.

The other day I went in to buy a hosepipe –manguera, a word, believe it or not, I didn’t even have to look up (diez puntos para mi) My boss had advised me when I moved in to my flat that I needed one to clean my large patio. I had naturally ignored the advice and cleaning task by avoiding the purchase. However, 6 months, several al-fresco parties and one attempt later I realised he was right. A bucket and one of those rubber brushes (I don’t even know the names for this stuff in English, what chance have I got?) was just not up to the job.

“How big’s the tap?” the overalled man asked me. This question, along with the cleaning, was what I’d been afraid of. I’d tried to measure it but seeing as it was round and I only had a plastic 15cm ruler it had been a tricky task. I relayed my dodgy estimate to my guy and from what looked like out of nowhere but was surely some sort of treasure chest, a red manguera appeared. “About this width?” I really wasn’t sure and ummmed and ahhhed a bit, asking if I could bring it back if it didn’t fit. The man looked equally unsure.

Who knows how long we might’ve continued in this vein if an older guy who’d been sipping some mate in the corner and looked like a genie awoken from his slumber hadn’t come to our rescue. “Cut her off a piece of it so she can go home and try”. What a great idea! The suggestion made perfect sense, why buy what I wasn’t sure about when I could test it for free and make a wise purchase later on? With that the younger guy chopped me off a hosepipe chunk and off I hopped to try it out.

It was too big and fell off immediately. Back I went and yet again out of nowhere/the depths of the cave a hosepipe appeared. This time it was yellow and blue striped. “This is our standard”, said the younger man and he opened up a brand new packet containing a plastic tap to try it out. After a bit of wiggling (which, he informed me, was essential) it fit.

I declared that I would take it. Had I been less aware that I needed to get to work, I might’ve borrowed a tape measure to go and check exactly how much hose I needed, but looking at my watch I decided 4 metres would do. I didn’t have the 25 of AR$20.25, but the man said he’d forgive me, I thought he meant for not having change (indeed a sin) but it turned out he let me off altogether. It was only 25 cents but still, I was as happy as any Argie who gets to hold onto their coins (i.e. ecstatic).

The doorknob jiggled about happily as I walked out, maybe it knew that it had one of the coolest names in the Spanish language, picaporte. It was almost falling off in excitement though, you’d think they might fix that.

I arrived home, now running late but anxious to see if I had indeed made a successful purchase. The pipe did wiggle onto the tap but only stretched halfway across the patio. Well, never mind. I didn’t want to dampen my own success. Surely I didn’t need to 4 out of 6 clean metres would do.

Since then, I’ve been looking for excuses to return. The men in there had been so kind, I’d felt they were committed to my cause, not because they wanted my money but because they wanted to solve the problem. That’s what’s so great about the specialist shops that abound here, these people care for their trades. Who in Tesco really cares about the stuff they sells? Or even knows what they’re selling?

I’ve often wondered how all these tiny shops survive, within 4 blocks of me there are 3 ferreterias to choose from, but now that I know my guys, I wouldn’t dream of going elsewhere. I even feel a little guilty if I look in the window of a rival (it’s ok, they’re not as good).  I’ve discovered the key to the cerrajeria– customer loyalty. I bet some people are as loyal to their ferreteria as they are to their football team, and  around here, that’s saying something.

I’ve been back a few times, to get some more keys cut, to buy some drain unblocker – soda caustica (yes, I did have to look that one up) and to try to find a part for a broken heater. Today I wanted some new batteries for my guitar tuner, which I couldn’t even open. The younger guy prised it and a new pack of batteries apart in under a minute. He didn’t attempt to sell me the whole box of 4, but instead carefully selected exactly the amount I required. I adore this system, it also applies in the pharmacy, why buy 10 tablets when you only want 4? He tested out the tuner, and after singing into it to assure it worked (it declared him flat) we had a brief music chat before he charged me 11 pesos and sent me on my way.

On the way out (the door was still broken), I had a sneaky peek at the un-priced milk jugs, feather dusters and flower pots and thanked “underdevelopment” that I wasn’t in some garish supermarket. Forget Iguazzu falls, wine tours or glaciers, the real Argentina lives behind the doors of your local ferreteria. The allure is indeed so great, that I find myself wondering what I could possibly break in order to have to fix. I guess I could always go in for light bulbs or a torch, power cuts are pretty adundant these days.