Terminal A is stuffier than when we came to meet Diego a couple of weeks back. But stuffy is a lot better than sweltering which is what it is outside. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The Air Canada line up is slow, as usual. They don´t add a secound or third attendant till closer to departure time. So us early birds face a slow, meandering line to the check in counter. I look up at the floating curves of the metal frames - an airplane´s wings or a flying girder - of the glass and steel roof. Standard airport architecture with a slightly tacky whiff with all the hanging adds, rigid tapestries, for perfumes and jewlery. The sound is a diffuse buzzing, echoing in the open space. Isadora looks nervous, impatient and excited all at once. She leans her head on my shoulder. Diego is standing quietly a few feet away but since my little apocalypse and our noisy bedroom session, she no longer feels as inhibited by his presence. It´s hard to tell how Diego himself feels.
Tenes el pasaporte listo?
A ridiculous question to ask her, especially to an Argentina. She´ll take it out a moment before it´s necessary. Anything else would be clumsy.
No, lo deje en Mardel. Pero tengo mi carnet de conducir nene.
It´s true, despite the sarcastic tone. She does indeed have her driver´s license now thanks to Cagnazzo´s help. Dr. Vukovich ( any PHD or lawyer is allowed the archaic form of addressing him or her ) is apparently a Peronista - a minority in Cordoba which usually votes Radical. What connections he has with bureaucrats in Provincia - that´s La Provincia de Buenos Aires; but all one needs to say is Provincia here in Argentina - I´m unsure of but he sure has the ability to get you any document you happen to need. I ignore Isa´s sarcastic repost and sigh softly, knowing how much sighing annoys her.
Diego waits quietly. How hurt is he by my relationship with Isa? He´s sharp and intuitive despite his laconic, carefree posture and I don´t dare misjudge him. I have to consider him potentially dangerous because he seems to be involved in everything. The line moves ahead a few paces and I push our cart forward. Two medium, black duffel bags. My briefcase. Isa´s laptop - she dare not leave it in Mardel where Oriana might download god knows what. And my green canvas knapsack purchased at the surplus store at Queen West and Bathurst. Is it still there? Possibly not. Toronto has changed more than I realize I´m sure. We´ve crammed enough essentials into it to enable us to get by in case our bags are lost. But I haven´t lost a thing between Ezeiza and Ottawa and I´ve been back and forth a few times now. We have our tickets and some cash - some of it ours but most of it supplied by Kabe himself. He hadn´t come to see us off letting Diego drive us in instead. It was almost fresh when we left town this morning but by the time we passed Dolores the heat began to be felt and when I argued with Diego, convincing him to take the shortcut onto ruta 215, ruta 6 and ruta 58, which takes you to the airport parkway, it was really hot. Isa was convinced we were lost but Diego, after a short bout of stubborness, did follow my instructions and we avoided going through the city and arrived early. The line starts to move a little faster. I look over at the counters and see another attendant checking passengers in.
Bueno. Nos vemos entonces ... Diego sounds a little nostalgic.
Vos venis? Isa asks.
Si. Kabe se queda en Mardel. Y voy a Cordoba unos dias antes.
Is it all a show? Is all this already arranged behind my back? We both kiss Diego and head through the security check. So he´ll head up to Cordoba in a week or so and meet us when we return. We head through and I look back one last time. Diego waves and waits. We walk ahead. It´s not a trek down enormous corridors like at Pearson. Ezeiza is a surprisingly small airport for a city the size of Buenos Aires. Of course, there´s the Aeroparque as well downtown. We pass through immigration and a final check. In the departure area I buy two coffees at a snack bar but barely touch mine. She tries to call Oriana but her card doesn´t work here in Ezeiza. We head over to our gate and slouch down in a row of dark blue chairs. It´s even stuffier in this part of the terminal and the faint odour of jet fuel from the tarmac tinges the air.
Isadora must be even more terrified than she´s letting show. We´re taxiing along and about to turn onto the runway. A copse of huge eucalyptus trees floats past my window. The grass looks greener than the parched shade they had been when I arrived in April of last year. December was wet. So was November. Nothing like Eritrea I imagine. We turn onto the runway and the engines rev up. I take Isa´s hand. Bisma Mining Corporation ( not to be confused with Bisha Mining Corporation also involved in Eritrea ) owns a property there that it is developing, near Bisha´s property who are also developing a mine. How Kabe passed himself off as a mining consultant with an engineering degree from Israel, I have no idea. It makes me wonder again about those diplomas on the wall. Regardless, he was paid US$50,000 to do a feasibility study and environmental assesment. Does he have connections with the Eritrean government? Is he in fact Eritrean? I didn´t bother asking. Regardless, the final 30,000 was recently paid out to him, or more likely a front company he´s set up, and somehow that money has snaked it´s way through the global fnancial system to end up in my chequing account in Renfrew. With the heat on tax havens I guess he did it that way rather than use the Caymans. Or maybe the sum isn´t large enough to justify wasting the time of some offshore lawyers and bankers. We can spend a few thousand on ourselves but we have to each have US13,000 for him in cash when Diego meets us back here in a couple of weeks. That´s 3,000 over the allowed limit but Kabe says we´ll be fine. No one will bother us if we look like a typical gringo/argentina couple, tired and frazzled after a trip back to Ottawa, St. Louis or wherever. The Airbus lifts off the blackened concrete and thrusts itslelf up into the sky. The fields and homes fall away quickly and I continue to hold Isa´s hand firmly.
The cloud cover lifts somewhere over the foothills and we have a glorious late afternoon view of the Andes. As we turn north to head up the central valley and into Santiago de Chile´s airport, Aconcagua appears far away to the right of our plane. It is an enormous triangle of rock and snow, looming above the diffuse layer of clouds back to the west towards Mendoza. I point it out to Isa who nods and grins nervously. We head down through the smog and land in Chile as the last of the sunshine bathes the dry red hills near the airport in an orange-golden glow. One step closer.
Tenes el pasaporte listo?
A ridiculous question to ask her, especially to an Argentina. She´ll take it out a moment before it´s necessary. Anything else would be clumsy.
No, lo deje en Mardel. Pero tengo mi carnet de conducir nene.
It´s true, despite the sarcastic tone. She does indeed have her driver´s license now thanks to Cagnazzo´s help. Dr. Vukovich ( any PHD or lawyer is allowed the archaic form of addressing him or her ) is apparently a Peronista - a minority in Cordoba which usually votes Radical. What connections he has with bureaucrats in Provincia - that´s La Provincia de Buenos Aires; but all one needs to say is Provincia here in Argentina - I´m unsure of but he sure has the ability to get you any document you happen to need. I ignore Isa´s sarcastic repost and sigh softly, knowing how much sighing annoys her.
Diego waits quietly. How hurt is he by my relationship with Isa? He´s sharp and intuitive despite his laconic, carefree posture and I don´t dare misjudge him. I have to consider him potentially dangerous because he seems to be involved in everything. The line moves ahead a few paces and I push our cart forward. Two medium, black duffel bags. My briefcase. Isa´s laptop - she dare not leave it in Mardel where Oriana might download god knows what. And my green canvas knapsack purchased at the surplus store at Queen West and Bathurst. Is it still there? Possibly not. Toronto has changed more than I realize I´m sure. We´ve crammed enough essentials into it to enable us to get by in case our bags are lost. But I haven´t lost a thing between Ezeiza and Ottawa and I´ve been back and forth a few times now. We have our tickets and some cash - some of it ours but most of it supplied by Kabe himself. He hadn´t come to see us off letting Diego drive us in instead. It was almost fresh when we left town this morning but by the time we passed Dolores the heat began to be felt and when I argued with Diego, convincing him to take the shortcut onto ruta 215, ruta 6 and ruta 58, which takes you to the airport parkway, it was really hot. Isa was convinced we were lost but Diego, after a short bout of stubborness, did follow my instructions and we avoided going through the city and arrived early. The line starts to move a little faster. I look over at the counters and see another attendant checking passengers in.
Bueno. Nos vemos entonces ... Diego sounds a little nostalgic.
Vos venis? Isa asks.
Si. Kabe se queda en Mardel. Y voy a Cordoba unos dias antes.
Is it all a show? Is all this already arranged behind my back? We both kiss Diego and head through the security check. So he´ll head up to Cordoba in a week or so and meet us when we return. We head through and I look back one last time. Diego waves and waits. We walk ahead. It´s not a trek down enormous corridors like at Pearson. Ezeiza is a surprisingly small airport for a city the size of Buenos Aires. Of course, there´s the Aeroparque as well downtown. We pass through immigration and a final check. In the departure area I buy two coffees at a snack bar but barely touch mine. She tries to call Oriana but her card doesn´t work here in Ezeiza. We head over to our gate and slouch down in a row of dark blue chairs. It´s even stuffier in this part of the terminal and the faint odour of jet fuel from the tarmac tinges the air.
Isadora must be even more terrified than she´s letting show. We´re taxiing along and about to turn onto the runway. A copse of huge eucalyptus trees floats past my window. The grass looks greener than the parched shade they had been when I arrived in April of last year. December was wet. So was November. Nothing like Eritrea I imagine. We turn onto the runway and the engines rev up. I take Isa´s hand. Bisma Mining Corporation ( not to be confused with Bisha Mining Corporation also involved in Eritrea ) owns a property there that it is developing, near Bisha´s property who are also developing a mine. How Kabe passed himself off as a mining consultant with an engineering degree from Israel, I have no idea. It makes me wonder again about those diplomas on the wall. Regardless, he was paid US$50,000 to do a feasibility study and environmental assesment. Does he have connections with the Eritrean government? Is he in fact Eritrean? I didn´t bother asking. Regardless, the final 30,000 was recently paid out to him, or more likely a front company he´s set up, and somehow that money has snaked it´s way through the global fnancial system to end up in my chequing account in Renfrew. With the heat on tax havens I guess he did it that way rather than use the Caymans. Or maybe the sum isn´t large enough to justify wasting the time of some offshore lawyers and bankers. We can spend a few thousand on ourselves but we have to each have US13,000 for him in cash when Diego meets us back here in a couple of weeks. That´s 3,000 over the allowed limit but Kabe says we´ll be fine. No one will bother us if we look like a typical gringo/argentina couple, tired and frazzled after a trip back to Ottawa, St. Louis or wherever. The Airbus lifts off the blackened concrete and thrusts itslelf up into the sky. The fields and homes fall away quickly and I continue to hold Isa´s hand firmly.
The cloud cover lifts somewhere over the foothills and we have a glorious late afternoon view of the Andes. As we turn north to head up the central valley and into Santiago de Chile´s airport, Aconcagua appears far away to the right of our plane. It is an enormous triangle of rock and snow, looming above the diffuse layer of clouds back to the west towards Mendoza. I point it out to Isa who nods and grins nervously. We head down through the smog and land in Chile as the last of the sunshine bathes the dry red hills near the airport in an orange-golden glow. One step closer.
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