Meat Market

Hernan Cotote was his name, 8 months on and my mind remembers him as David Dickinson. All orange tan and jazzy tie. I had wandered around for ten minutes or so before the meeting trying to find the office. Having genuinely considered giving up I eventually found the door concealed inside a scenic courtyard, perhaps the disguise should have been my first hint towards the not so up front business of interviewing for teaching jobs in Buenos Aires.

Initially at least, Hernan wasn´t home. Instead I was greeted by a rather brash, Texan (is there any other kind?) dressed for a private sports club smart casual drinks jolly, all slacks, creaseless shirt and slip on shoes…and his arm in a sling. I was then immediately treated to an exagerated account of his heroic battle with an armed thief just one week previously; “I mean, I’m from Texas, I saw a gun soon as I could walk!”, astounding memories, these Texans. Disapointingly I was spared the story of his liberation of Texan towns from the hands of Mexican bandits by Hernan’s arrival. And so began my first Argentinian interview;
Do you have a TEFL certificate?
How long do you plan to stay in Buenos Aires?
What is your availability?
“Excellent, you can Start nee...(look skywards and wait for a day to magically drop into ones mind)...xt Wednesday. We’ll give you a call in the week.”

Having waited a few days I couldn’t stand it any longer and called first. I was quickly assured that the classes were being confirmed ‘at this very moment’ (but you’re speaking to me ‘at this very moment’, not the client?). Another week passed. I called back and this time spoke to Hernan´s assistant and listened as, on hearing my name, Hernan, sitting not 5 feet away, explained that he was, in Fact, out of the office a this time. I was begining to think that perhaps I wasn´t the only one wearing Hernan’s pin and was now glad our first interview had gone no further than first base questions. This, understandably, as a teaching virgin, left me rather confused. I needed closure, and so I decided to send an email, more neutral, lass molesting than a phone call I mused. Not wanting to sound bitter, I suggested it would be great to hear from him in the future. I still await the call, leaving me feeling cheap as two-week-old choripan.

I had a taste for it now though, only slightly dulled by the excesses of Christmas and New Year in Buenos Aires and in particular Hostel Clan (R.I.P). And so, on the recommendation of another teacher, via the well-used hook-up site ‘craigslist’, I was invited to a blind date style interview. The institute in question claimed to be ‘superior’ in its very name and so, confidence damaged having been taken for a ride (ahem) by Hernan, I wasn’t holding out too much hope. Consequently I thought nothing of arriving with an enormous tear in the crotch of my already shabby jeans. Thankfully I realised there was a breeze blowing and crossed my legs. Bringing into view my ₤5 pumps (thankyou Brick Lane) which, 5 months on from their purchase, were begining to resemble sandals. Now, Argentina, and Buenos Aires in particular, could perhaps be considered to be image conscious, having as it does one of the highest plastic surgery rates in the World, so obviously I’d need some serious smooth talking, teacher sounding statements to cover the holes in my inexperienced teaching career, not least my shoes and trousers. My opponent in this battle of wills, keeping me from meeting the man whom I desired to impress was in fact his stoney faced co-ordinator. This dominating Mother like figure was no fool either, spitting rapid fire questions such as the traveller’s favourite ‘Where are you from?’, and the decidely less specific ‘How would you teach a class?’. Surely this open question was my chance to shine?! Blow the competition back to Los Angles, Sydney, New York or Sunderland (¿!). ‘I guess (..don’t guess you sloppy bastard!..), I’d make sure I covered all the bases of reading, writing, listening and….errr… yeah. I’d cover all four.’ Brilliant. At this point I remembered the hole in my trousers and considered pulling a Sharon Stone manouvre. Thankfully I thought better of it, real-life has neither re-wind or pause functions, rendering flashing my rapidly retreating balls about as useless as a 20 hour TEFL certificate when faced with a room full of Argentinian teenagers whose balls are just coming to the forefront of their collective psyches. However, before I left, there was just time for me to offer my availability (24 hours a day, 7 days a week since you ask), and thank them for their time. Interview practice. Essential experience. Something to make me stronger. I told myself as I congratulated my mere attendance with a cold Quilmes. On the plus side they aren´t all mentirosos I thought, at least they didn’t make me any false promises, although I never actually got through the front door to meet the potential employer himself. Regardless, it was onto the next.

And so it was, leaving the next. Which confirmed that not everybody immedietaly offers hours. But, even those looking for a legal worker, with a year or so experience of teaching children and full qualifications, will offer an interview to a fresh off the plane 24 year old with a 20 hour TEFL certificate, and teaching experience covering classes such as ‘how to make a wrap’ and ‘how to avoid serious employment opportunities in the post-grad world’. As will those institues who have already filled the advertised vacancy. Travel for an hour or so on an overland train, outside of the city limits and into the slower paced province of Greater Buenos Aires where everything from the buildings, the meat and the skin tone of the majority of the population has a slightly different tone to that of Euro-centric downtown. Find your way through fierce, iron-gated doorways and up narrow passages to first floor offices cramped between former portable toilet partition walls, impress in the first 15 minutes of your interview, share a joke or two in Castellano, be told you have a strong accent and that this could be a problem, then be told the job has already been given anyway, to an Irishman! All the same, it was interesting to see this part of town, and thanks at least, for your honesty once we were face to face… But wait, hang on, Mr Irish might be crap you say?! In which case you’ll call me immediately alter his first lesson to arrange a trial class. Second choice, potencial back-up and even then I may not be completely trusted. All the romance of a first date at a Telo.

Still, every suitor has their own agenda. Everyone wants to keep their options open. This is a city where emotions run high, but emotional ties are loose and easily undone. You take what you desire in este momento, tomorrow is another day for us all, as individuals. So, if an institute co-ordinator or teacher has a translation assignment to complete, why not invite a native teacher to ones apartment for some kind of interview and a coffee to aid its completion? Straight to the point: ‘DVD night, Friday, me and you?’. A little forward for a first meeting perhaps, but this city can be a big lonely place and who knows where such an offer might lead? Having gotten what she wanted, i.e. my future availability and a better translation for ‘portable cabin for the consumption of food and beverages’, I was turned back out into the driving rain with the inevitable ‘I’ll give you a call sometime’ ringing in my still wet-behind ears. Just in time i thought, before her husband returns from work to wonder what this dripping wet young man was doing in his wife’s living room.
Of course, not everyone has the pelota’s to be quite so brazen. More subtle methods are employed in an attempt to transmit the dissapointment that, in real life, you fail to live up to the profile you posted online. ‘Yes this is a role teaching a very important company,…you have a quite a modern hair cut don’t you?' However, despite my obvious inadeqacies, I apparently remained an option. Alter all, bi-ological clocks are ticking, we haven´t got forever to teach these people English, 'just let me ensure we have each other’s contact details'.

By this point I was close to testing the unspoken rules usually ignored by all under the pretence that there is something deeper, more profound at work here. ‘Just take what you want, I will perform I promise. Just a little attention is all I require in return, just a couple of dates a week, 2 classes no more!’. Particularly after flagging self-comfidence had led me to talk my way down from level 2 pay scale to no job offer at all in another ‘first-floor, converted apartment institute’ interview.

Then, finally, a serious offer came. This guy, with his gelled hair as slick and sickly as his North Americanised accent, seemed to like me, seemed to think I could do the job. We were getting on well, until he knew my story word for word that was. Having left the room to talk with his peers, he returned, presumably egged on by the others, lacking the respect that had previously existed between us. He said he could still go along with someone like me, but things had changed. It seemed he now wanted me to be his slave, to be there when he ‘needed me’ all hours of the day, on his terms, for limited reward. Despite previous knock-backs I wasn’t going to allow my lack of a visa to make me feel like one or Orwell´s unpersons with no legal working rights... I thanked him for the time we had shared, picked up my meagre belongings and headed for the door, with the obligatory promise of a call if ever he felt he could offer me the commitment I needed and felt I deserved.

This was by no means the last time I felt undervalued. On more than one occassion I followed the route of many a young person arriving alone in a big city when greeted by a kindly man with a smile and a promise. Sucked in by the gift of one class every week and the promise of greater riches to follow, I’ve attended interviews and given my all to impress, doing everything I felt I could and more beyond. Leaving my phone number behind continualy convinced me that myself and these trickster institutes had some kind of future together. The reality of course, is almost always much harsher, they soon forget and don’t call, prefering the fresher, newer, perhaps more exotic, faces on the scene, leaving me out on the street with just the scraps of one inconveniently located, early morning class to live off.

I was close to the edge when George called. I hadn´t met him in the interview, failing to get past his stoney faced guardian with my 3 day shadow and scruffy attire. Even so I knew he wasn’t perfect. He is much older than me, approaching 70 and with a brain rapidly regressing in the opposite direction, and perhaps he knew how to prey on the weak, but by this stage I didn’t care. What attracted me was merely the feeling of being wanted for the long term. Sure our hours and location of meetings were hard work for me, and just like the rest of them he has made countless promises that have never been fulfilled. I even suspect him of dishonesty and deceitful behaivour with the other teachers he knows. My friends tell me I should leave but for me, its not as simple as that. As time has passed I’ve come to realise some things about myself in ths city. I don’t need to be downtown hanging around glitzy multi-nationals with free drinks dispensers, or up in Palermo in the houses of the TV and cinema elite. I need something steadier, someone to lean on at guaranteed, regular intervals, accepting me with all my limitations, not asking too many questions of my past, providing enough work to keep me in hot, fresh choripan..