Buenos Aires — Good Winds
It’s been thirty years since my first encounter with Buenos Aires when Areolineas Argentinas landed at Eziza to be followed by a mad rush cross town to Aeroparque en route to Montevideo. Weaving through traffic past multi storey apartment block after apartment block, along avenues that stretched into the distance, we could see occasional patches of green, slightly more plentiful than rectangles of blue (pools) that had dotted the urban landscape from above. Two years later I returned and began a love affair with the ‘Paris of the South’. Nineteenth century french architecture and1920’s art deco buildings cloistered amongst 1960s and 70s constructions gave BA a quintessentially european flavour, just a little at odds with the March heat and humidity. Decades of affluence, waves of immigration (largely Italians too late to influence the idioma of the country) created a city of narrow calles and wide avenidas, which to a girl from Oz was somewhat exotic. After travelling the countries to its north I returned to Argentina for a couple of weeks filling in time in BA, exploring from San Telmo, along Avenida 9 de Julio, and soon feeling at home. Avenida 9 de Julio took almost a century to happen, planned in the 19th century, constructed from the 1930s though to the 60s, purportedly the widest avenue in the world, volumes of commuters now run parallel to the River Plate. Bizarrely the avenue splits around the French Embassy (foreign soil that would not budge), which stands sentinal to the past, while 100s of surrounding edifices were demolished, thrown into the sea and walled off to the populous until one day, 70 years later, they would give rise as the most expensive per square mile land in Latin America, Puerto Madero.
My first true encounter with apartment living was in Montevideo, and BA reflected the same exotic concept of uniformed concierge, gated elevators, polished stone floors, gleaming brass framed glass doors, every building appearing, to my naive eyes, opulent and luxurious. Restaurants were mimics of the everyday european cafe with a long wooden bar and stools, small square wooden tables and chairs with a narrow passage between filling a space where waiters, complete with their white aprons, bent deferentially to take an order, bringing a bottle of agua con gas and a single glass placed next to the toilet tissue serviettes (you know the type, the paper that doesn’t really absorb anything). My typical breakfast had been a medialuna con jamon y queso, a sweet cake like croissant with ham and cheese, and thick dark syrup like coffee with hot milk (long before Melbourne was transformed into coffee central).
In 1989 I floated in and out of BA a number of times as the country was crushed under the hefty weight of it’s twelfth, post WWII hyperinflation. Banks limited the amount of US$ people could withdraw. It was common for residents to have local bank accounts for the Austral (the currency at the time) and another for the greenback. For me, travelling with US travellers cheques, it was like winning Tattslotto — my friends and I shopped till we dropped, leather and woollen goods, tapes (we are talking pre invention of the CD), and eating steaks at some of the best restaurants in town. Taxis here and there, a Tango show, a nice hotel. All a far cry from the back packing that lay ahead of us as we roamed South America.
The love affair ended 3 years later when Argentina’s government instituted a new currency, the peso, and matched it 1:1 with the USD. The economic gamble lasted till 2001 and killed the manufacturing and export industries. While Argentineans were travelling the world, living the high life, reliving past decades of affluence, the cost was colossal, a’bank holiday’ that lasted a year. No one was able to access their money for 12 months, triggering nation wide protests and martial law just 18 years after the bloodiest coup the country had experienced. In 2001 Argentina beat Australia’s record for revolving door of presidents (or prime ministers). After the incumbent De la Rúa helicoptered to safety via Uruguay to Shakira’s house (his son was dating her), 5 presidents came and went within just 10 days. The violent unrest has resulted in semi permanent barricades around Casa Rosaria and a heavy police presence. There was until recently some exceptions. Until last week ‘the camp’ of Las Malvinas veterans (you take your life into your hands if you call them The Falklands) protested for a better pension, these men were purportedly not those who fought, rather, they acted in support roles. Interestingly we were told the young men sent to fight in a 90 day war instituted by President Galtieri to deflect the public’s focus on the declining power of the dictatorship and economy, were untrained young conscripts, not military men. Galtieri had attempted to call Britain’s bluff but as we know the Iron Lady had other ideas. Well, this is all according to the guide on the Biking Buenos Aires tour. Different guides represented Argentina’s history through their own political lens. One person I met scoffed that for every Argentinean there will be a different version of history.
The current president, Macri, a very successful businessman with links to the military has, since coming to power, proposed ‘alternative facts’ in relation to the disappearances during the 1976–1983 dictatorship. Las madres de los desaparecidos, or las madres de Plaza de Mayo, started their protests on 30 April 1977. Four decades on, the group of 14 has grown. 2,037 marches later, the mothers, some of them now using wheelchairs, meet every Thursday at 3pm in the plaza outside Casa Rosaria to protest. Argentina’s new government wants to erase the memory of those terrible years and is putting the brakes on the continuation of trials. Graffiti calling ‘memoria’ punctuates public spaces, a simple word to challenge the populous to never forget the crimes of the past. Another wound from that era was inflicted through the dictatorship’s fear of communism. Newborn babies of women or couples suspected to be ‘red’ were taken and adopted to right wing families, Argentina’s very own ‘stolen generation’. In the past weeks some 40 year olds were reunited with their birth families. So much to set right.
As I cycled on the bike tour, scanning the city skyline, it seems Argentina’s architecture reflects its economic and political history. First there was the relocation of San Telmo residents when yellow fever struck in 1871 (the wealthy left their San Telmo houses lock stock and barrel and established Recoleta as the new upmarket suburb). San Telmo was walled off, awaiting porteños to ‘discover’ the fully furnished homes decades later. Recoleta’s beauty, 19th century architecture, wide avenues and narrow streets, is punctuated with green spaces and the ubiquitous conquistador statues towering over the populous, providing convenient perches for pigeons. The Museo de Bellas Artes, the infamous El Ateneo Grand Splendid — a luxurious 1919 theatre that currently houses one of the world’s Top 10 bookshops, stunning examples of everything french — the gold standard when Recoleta was constructed. Art deco edifices stand in the shadow of towering 60s and 70s apartment blocks.When the economic catastrophes of the 80s hit, there was a pause in architectural history. In the late 90s and 21st century buildings have emerged hinting at a slowly recovering economy perhaps, or Chinese investment?
We cycled through the iconic La Boca and learnt the history of the tango (a dance of two men which evolved from the fight over prostitutes) and the music the only common language in the port filled with men from around the world.
Our enthusiastic Brazilian and Dutch guides for the Biking BA tour regaled us with details of BA football and drinking culture. Football is truly religious and political for Argentineans, the source of many protests and much violence. For the past four years only home side members are permitted into the game, the violence so profound despite the prohibition of alcohol. Instead, imbuing 39% alcohol Fernet Branca, ice and coca cola (a disgusting bitter concoction) in the grounds outside is the norm.
We also learnt the Argentinean method of serving maté, a shared ritual unlike the more individual pattern in Uruguay. The only way that my palate can tolerate maté was in the gin and apple juice cocktail I enjoyed at the Puerta Cerrada meal. A friend had alerted me to this ‘underground’ movement that has now become mainstream. Locals opening their homes to share a meal with strangers (for a fee). I found one of the originals, Casa Shaltshaker, run by a USA expat and his Peruvian Tango instructor boyfriend. Along with 6 strangers we sat at the large wooden table in a upmarket Recoleta apartment and meandered through 5 exquisite courses each with an accompanying local wine. The conversation was good, and along with the biking tour group, I came away with a hope that not all tour groups would match my recent experiences with Peregrine!
My taxi experiences in BA were a reminder of what a good service can be, Uber would struggle here. And my maps.me app was a secure back up to ensure I was heading in the right direction. The drivers were courteous. South American men have an emotional sensitivity to them and while there may be some machismo, they are overtly affectionate with each other showing profound joyful hugs upon greeting each other, and their gentlemanly behaviour towards women had me thinking. I wondered if ‘feminists’ would view this as placing women in an inferior position? To me it looked, and felt, like men respecting women as mothers, wives, sisters, givers of life. Nothing more. This gentlemanly behaviour does not appear to have hindered women’s place in society — South American women seem assertive and independent to me. I certainly enjoyed the chivalrous treatment.
In the 21st century the city’s green spaces are filled with people exercising and dog walkers, there are increasing bike paths, and bus and taxi lanes keep the city moving. The sidewalks of Recoleta were busy with people as I walked to the Evita museum, dodging the perpetual drip from aircons above. Corner stores sold alimentos (food), next door was a fruit and veg shops, a butchery, a bread shop — an abundance of local shops rather than large supermarkets, a more European air than Australia. Having heard differing perspectives of Evita depending on the politics of the speaker, the museum celebrated her active social work, seemed to avoid the truth of her parentage, omitted her intimidation of the elite (demanding blank, signed cheques) and whitewashed her ascendance towards Vice presidency. A guide had asserted that House of Cards was based on the Peron tale. I could not find anything in the net to confirm this, but like Zimbabwe’s recent history, there was a MacBethean hue to the tale, certainly similar to the TV show.
One can’t talk of South America, or Argentina in particular, without mentioning meat and ice cream. I found an Heladaria (ice cream shop) selling Rapa Nui and took the smallest cone possible with chocolate rapa nui and a dulce de leche triple temptation….. bliss! From my balcony I could hear the drinkers from the Cerveceria (Beer garden) and smell the enticing aromas from the local parrilladas (grill). My final evening I took up facebook’s offer to explore recommended restaurants nearby (big brother IS watching). Around the corner, at a relatively early hour (8pm), I found Don Julio. It was fairly busy, and not many locals at that early hour. Clearly other tourists had been following fb’s recommendations. I was offered a seat at the bar where I was entertained by the cocineros (cooks) selecting slabs of meat, carving inches thick steaks, and after patting it down, dousing it with a generous sprinkle of salt, the cuts were placed and periodically rotated on the grate, cooking slowly over hot coals of the the parrillada, while the fire to the side was feed regularly to supply new coals. The camareros (waiters) busily delivered breadboards of succulent meat, cooked to bloody perfection. Passing up the last chance for a local Malbec, I sipped a Mendoza white instead, awaiting my rib eye (lomo) which when it came was at least one and a half inches thick and the size of my two hands. It felt criminal but I could only eat half. I did ponder what would happen to all the left overs. With 2 million dogs in BA alone, and some very healthy specimens living the street life, I hope that at least the strays got a good feed. The camareros at restaurants, slower than home, spoke not of poorer service, rather the importance of taking time to enjoy food and good company.
My final breakfast was a media luna and cafe before cabbing it to Puerto Madero Sur for the Colonia Express Cat to Uruguay. In the years since my first encounter with Buenos Aires, many countries and cities have come into my heart. As memories of my last journey on the ferry 29 years ago with an Uruguayan boyfriend, recollections floated through my mind. The freedom of travel, loves and lovers, beginnings and endings. In just six weeks I will be home. Am I tired of moving every few days or week, have I wearied of not understanding the person talking to me, has the lack of being ‘in service’ sapped me of purpose, has my desire to explore been depleted. No. Not yet at least. But it looks like in a month or so I will be heading home.
But the adventure will continue.
