BUENOS AIRES
The sign read, 'fin bisisenda.' Shannon said, "I think that means the end."
Jim stood up on the pedals to see farther. "No, there's a big fancy building up ahead. Some kind of museum. If we run out of bike path we can get on the road."
He pedaled past the 'fin bisisenda' sign, down a slight incline, and under some massive brick arches that supported a railroad track. A commuter train was rumbling overhead. When he emerged from the arches, the bike path petered out and they were quite suddenly out of the green park and on a narrow, rutted dirt road which entered a neighborhood of low brick houses.
Ahead and off to the right he could see modern high rises poking above the houses. But the road zigzagged and the houses, which stood cheek to jowl, began to squeeze it hard.
"Wait a minute. What the hell is this?"
Shannon said, "Wow. It's like we're not in Europe anymore."
She was right, Jim realized. Until this moment, Buenos Aires felt like Will had predicted: a European city, exclusively white, with nary a Black or an Indian. Here, the people staring at them looked totally different than anyone they'd seen so far—smaller, darker and exhibiting none of the lively gestures of the ebullient Portenos, and dressed in rags.
Jim steered around a pile of garbage, dodged a heap of scrap wood studded with nails, and around a sharp bend found the way partially blocked by garbage burning. He pedaled around the smoke and wove a path through people pushing rusted shopping carts.
"Jim, I think we should get out of here."
He took the next turn, to the right, which should bring them back to the center city. But the street grew narrower still and the houses had turned to shacks made of corrugated metal and scrap lumber.
The bike was too long to turn around. Another turn brought them to a halt on a lane of cardboard and flapping plastic. A trench down the middle of the lane overflowed with sewage. Jim stepped off the bike and walked it, looking for a turn off.
A little kid in ripped jeans and a dirty tee shirt darted from a slot between two plastic-covered crates. He shook a torn paper cup in Jim's face.
"I have change," said Shannon. "They want money—Hey!" She shouted as another child—tiny as a six year old—tugged at her backpack. "Let go!"
Jim pushed the kid away. He felt his palm brush bone, the child was so skinny. In an instant they were surrounded by ragged children who were reaching for their packs and grabbing at their pockets.
The children was so silent that Jim and Shannon could hear the distant whine of another train. Jim saw a flash of steel, felt something sting his thigh. When he looked down he saw that they'd slashed right through his pocket. A walnut sized fist emerged from the cloth, stuffed with money.
They were pulling the bike, dragging it with Shannon stuck on the seat. He shoved through the swarm of arms and pulled her off. The bike slid away and vanished. Jim backed against a wall, gripping Shannon in the crook of his left arm, and fending off the silent, swarming kids with his right.