After twice visiting Buenos Aires briefly a decade ago, I remember telling friends that it didn’t seem like the rest of South America. With its grand boulevards, ornate statuary, and marvellously preserved bars and cafés, it was as if I was staying in a city somewhere in southern Europe, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on which one. It’s little wonder, then, that Buenos Aires is sometimes referred to as La París de Sudamérica.
Memory, though, has a wonderful way of intensifying recollections of good times, while masking the bad behind a soft black cloak of the past. It’s one of the very best (and certainly most merciful) of our human traits.
And so it is with Buenos Aires, now that I’m visiting once again. I had waxed lyrical about the city, since that’s what I remembered of my previous visits there. What I had forgotten was the other stuff, the things you might expect in a place that’s perched right on the edge of the what we condescendingly call the “Third World”.
For along with the fantastic architecture (a product of a time at the beginning of the last century when beef exports made Argentina one of the richest nations on earth), there’s also the graffiti covering every available surface on most city streets; waste paper absolutely everywhere (thanks to the Argentinians’ penchant for dropping anything as soon as they no longer have a use for it); and dog faeces wherever you set foot (since letting things drop certainly also extends to their pets).
When visiting Buenos Aires, the inevitable question you find yourself asking, since you’re standing in smeared dog-doo right in front of a visual assault with spray paint, and looking up at a most exquisite statue adorning a neoclassical stone building, is what in the world happened to this town?
The answer, of course, is an anguished history throughout the 20th century that runs the gamut, from coups, state terrorism and economic collapses, to a senseless and disastrous war. Argentina is not always a happy place, and Buenos Aires wears some of the country’s beauty, as well as many of its scars.
ooOOoo
Lest I paint too dismal a picture of Buenos Aires, let me just say that the city also has some wonderful charms. First and foremost are the people themselves. When you find your way into the wealthier districts, they dress with all the style you’d expect of Parisians. The men in particular wear suits of the finest cut (they make businessmen in our countries look absolutely frumpy in comparison).
Their shoes are of the finest leather, and are so polished you’d swear they buy a new pair every day. And you won’t find many “straight back and sides”. These guys keep their hair longish and wavy, as if they’re a famous movie director, or a stand-in for Antonio Banderas.
But despite all this, and the almost haughty way they carry themselves, you only have to ask them a question on the street, or even just look quizzically at a tourist map, and they’ll stop, try to talk to you, and if they don’t speak English, accost people walking by until they find someone who does.
The citizens of Buenos Aires are some of the nicest and most friendly you’ll find in any big city anywhere.
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And lets not forget fútbol. Argentinians are known throughout the world for their passion, and nowhere is this more evident than with their national sport. We say in New Zealand that rugby is our official religion. But for the people of Buenos Aires, support for their local teams (Boca Juniors and River Plate) verges on the frenzy you associate with a full-blown riot.
I managed to “attend” (that word just doesn’t seem right in this context) a Boca Juniors game at their stadium in the La Boca barrio, a famously colourful area of town. The structure was fairly old, but sound enough, being constructed of concrete, and it was painted right down to the smallest doorknob with the same colours as my very own local rugby team.
When I got inside, however, after climbing what seemed like a whole skyscraper’s worth of stairs, I realised that the seats were so steeply arranged it felt like I was sitting (or mostly standing) right on the shoulders of the people in front of me, and they were on the people below them, and so on for hundreds of levels down.
The crowd of 50,000 was a blur of yellow and blue, and they periodically broke into chants that sounded suspiciously like “olé, olé olé olé”, keeping beat all the while by wagging their index fingers, as if to say, “You’d better watch out!”
As for the other team’s supporters, they were confined to a tiny section, at the highest point of the stadium, surrounded by 4m high fences topped with razor wire, and protected by riot police. Whenever they tried to sing a song to their heroes, their voices were completely obliterated by chants of “Bo-ca, Bo-ca”.
The game itself was something of an anti-climax. Argentinians play soccer really hard, almost as if they wish they could just give up kicking the ball and throw their opponents to the ground instead.
There were at least 8 yellow cards, a goal scored (thankfully by Boca) when the opposition goalie’s legs were taken out from under him on a corner kick, as well as a red card. This last incident included the player being led from the field by police, who thoughtfully used their Perspex riot shields to cover the offender’s head as he came close to the sidelines.
It was like everything else in South America’s most famous Spanish-speaking city – at turns marvellous and frightening, and more than a little tawdry around the edges. But most thankfully, when all the fans started jumping up and down to the rhythm of their Boca songs, the stands remained “standing”. I had no idea reinforced concrete had so much flex!
ooOOoo
Finally, a few words about the tango, Argentina’s marvellous gift of dance to the world. We’ve all seen the sanitised version on TV or in the movies. But once you witness the real thing, performed by real people, in the place where it has always been most at home, you realise that it is the most sensual thing two people can do standing up while still keeping their clothes firmly on.
For most of the western world, at least, dance is something set apart, a thing we do with our bodies on the very odd occasion when we’ve had one or two “loosening” beverages, and end up on a floor with many others, hopefully in dim enough light so that we don’t feel like we’re making fools of ourselves.
That’s not tango. For the citizens of Buenos Aires, tango is something you do when the mood strikes you, like after work on the street.
I well remember my first visit to the city. I was sauntering along its famous Calle Florida, a car-free thoroughfare chock full of stores that seemed to go on for miles.
It was August, the temperature was only about 12°C, and almost everyone was wearing beautiful coats that went all the way down to the knees.
I stopped momentarily, since a man of about 75 was setting up what looked like a ghetto blaster. He was dressed immaculately, in a double-breasted suit coat, and his shoes absolutely gleamed. His wavy grey hair was slicked down, and he sported a pencil-thin moustache just like Clarke Gable used to wear.
He flicked the switch of his machine, and a combination of piano, violins, guitar, and that ubiquitous accordian-like instrument of tango, the bandoneon, began to play. And then he turned around and fixed his gaze at the passing crowd.
Finally another pair of eyes locked on, and a beautiful (and very young) blond woman who had been walking by reached out her hand, while at the same time setting down her briefcase. Gently he helped her remove her long coat, and then with a snap of the wrist he spun her around as they began to dance.
It was one of the most amazing spontaneous things I think I’ve ever seen in a public place, and before long the codger and his catch had attracted a big group of on-lookers. The moves the dancers made were wonderful, and I was transfixed by how elegantly the old fellow turned his partner back and forth, spinning at one step, then twisting and dipping at the next.
Eventually I turned towards the crowd, and it was as if I was watching a mass judging of Dancing with the Stars. Everyone was very intent, studying each and every move. When there was a finely performed one, they nodded sagely. When there was a stumble (and there were very few), more than a couple of frowns appeared.
The song eventually ended, and when it did the woman smiled at the old fellow. He gently kissed her hand, helped her back on with her coat, and she disappeared into the crowd. As my eyes followed her, I realised that there were at least three other crowds nearby on the side-walk, watching similar dancers.
It was just a normal week-night rush hour in Buenos Aires, the city with tango in its blood.
~originally composed in September, 2011~