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I remember the hawk and the afternoon sun; a gorgeous bird of prey pausing on a branch. Was it one of the eucalyptus trees that surround Pueyrredon´s rugby pitch in Parque Camet? I chain my bicycle to a post near the quaint wooden shack where a group of women sell lace and hand crafted bric a brac. Do I exaggerate and worry needlessly? It is rumoured to be unsafe - I insist. A milky haze softens the sun and the breeze off the sea (the shore is at the other end of the park, just past the coastal avenue) is insistent but modest. I walk past the wooden cottage and look for Toby. He had grown tired of the internal squabbles in the guerilla gardening movement in London and found his way to Argentina. For him it was food that mattered and ¨fight the filth with flowers¨, the hue and cry of many of his colleagues, irritated him. He had left behind the street battles with the police but no way he was going to be caught planting perennials in public parks in greater London. How he came by his chacra I´m not sure - and the word means a small garden plot rather than a wormhole to nirvana. But it was tucked away behind the rugby club where he shared a plot with Matts and Mikal and grew potatoes and peas and carrots and a few other things. They actually lease the land from Club Pueyrredon and it is hidden behind a thick copse of trees so that waves of militantes populares, if you will, won´t claim all of the club´s land and raise corrugated metal shacks and have violent tear gas drenched stand offs with the police. Did I mention I exaggerate? He sells his wares at a stand just past the cottage in front of the fence marking the club´s land. There he is. I wave twice and the second time he looks up and grins at me. We chat about anarchism often, keeping it short and jovial - he smelled my more conservative instincts inmediately. But we do chat and compare Chile´s more disciplined brand of communism with Argentina´s deep anarchist roots. We greet and I ask him how West Ham is doing and I buy some potatoes and zapallitos, a succulent little squash you eat with the skin still on. He fills my bag and I´m off back to my bicycle sighing with relief when I spot it intact against the post. I turn and wave at him one last time and then stash the bag in the rack and peddle my bike down Drummond and turn east on Beltrán. Then south on Tejedor where the traffic is busier and I have to stay close to the sidewalks.

The sun burns away some of the haze but the day is still fresh. If I cycle slowly the sweat doesn´t accumulate under my arms. I try not to mention Toby to Isdadora; just to avoid uneccessary complications. She´ll accuse me once again; for example she insists that the Lithuanian was not lynched but rather suffered bruises in what had been a drunken brawl with fellow campers. And she just stares at me when I mention the threatened trade retaliations. But she can´t deny Kabede. She´s met him sitting under the gum trees in Parque Camet. He likes to unwind and relax there and I love listening to his dissertations on Ethiopia´s religious communites and how they are the true keepers of both Christianity and even Judaism. He left Addis Abba in 1986 and after 16 years in Tel Aviv, he came to Argentina in the depths of the last crisis when De La Rúa had recently surrendered power to the Peronistas. He claims degrees in both architecture (more sermons on urban planning and Haile Selassie) and viticulture. He says he´s a contractor at a new hotel they´re building near Balneario Marbella. I wonder if he works as an architect or merely a subcontractor, despite his degrees. I feel envious of him naturally; he´s made some progress while I´m just stuck in survival mode. I´ve met him several times during the week so work must be slow. That gives me a little perverse pleasure I do admit. I turn down Strobel and head towards the shore and our apartment. I hope Isa had paying clients today. That would be so fucking wonderful! Let´s hope.