A Word of Warning About Fake Notes

So my second night in Buenos Aires didn’t go much better than the first, despite a great take-away dinner from a local café. Returning home pretty famished from all the walking, I found the cutest restaurant around the corner, serving up to 20 guests at a time from an upstairs kitchen, with a pulley-system delivering the tasty fare below.

I looked past the massive hunks of beef, and settled on a leaner ¼ chicken and salad, and waited with the locals for it to arrive (although I could have just asked them to send it home for no extra cost). Having eaten up heartily, I soon headed out for a drink and another mini-bite with a Serbian guy Milan, and Christian, and we wind up at a cool place that has a plethora of promo girls stopping by to hand out free Jagermeister and cigarettes. Not bad.

Feeling like it was going to be a good night, we grab a taxi to Crowbar and get a much better club which is unfortunately playing some pretty shoddy music that quickly wears thin. Still wanting to have a proper dance, we decided to push on to another club Bahrain but it is here that the night really gets unstuck.

Handing over a 100 peso note for entry, a swift response comes back with one word “Falso!”. Looking quite astounded, Christian says that it is impossible, that the money came from a bank’s ATM, but she is adamant, and quickly marks it with a big fat “F”. Not having encountered this before, I reach into my wallet to compare it with my own, and recover even more problems.

Lurking beneath a couple of 20s is a mini collection of forged currency – another 100 and a 50 peso note. In short, the rest of my weekend is looking back at me through deep-purple eyes that are five minutes away from being torn up.

Roaming in Recoleta

I attempt to sleep off the late night, but with six other girls getting ready for the day, I decide that I am probably better walking it off in the city of the dead – Recoleta Cemetary. It is here that Evita and her husband, and former Argentinian president, Juan Domingo Perón have been laid to rest amongst the city’s most affluent families, lawyers, architects, doctors, engineers and military men – right beside a Village Cinema complex and McDonald’s.

Making my way there, I pass by a few men on the way who look like they should be on the other side of the 10m-high red-brick wall, not sleeping on the French-inspired boulevards that are full of pure-breds and their faeces. Statues nosily poke out over the top of the imposing barrier, as if they are still trying to keep an eye on the city they have left, as I trudge around to the entrance.

Once through the imposing Greek gates, I wander through the many blocks of mausoleums and am surrounded by tombs in various aging states, in a range of sizes, colours, and decorations. Jazz music blares through from the nearby markets and a rotten foosty smell follows me down almost every path. And for once Lonely Planet is right when they say to just follow the crowds to Evita – number 57 on the map. The Peron wrought iron tomb door is stuffed with fake flowers and a vintage image of Eva, and surrounded by a line a people wanting their photo with her already decayed remains. A little strange, I think, wanting to be so close to someone so dead.

Outside again, I stroll through the market stalls, passing tarot card readers, statue-performers and lots of photographs of tango poses. Cheese and meats are also on display, as are jewellery and brightly decorated leather satchels. On my way down to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, I stumble across the Cultural Centre, but the only interest inside seems to be the Ticketek office – selling tickets to a dragon show for kids.

I finally decide it is time to eat something, and grab a “pane relleno” from the nearest Mum-and-daughter-manned picnic basket. I really have no idea what it is, with a teatowel concealing its appearance, but reading the list of ingredients, I decided it should be safe. Surprisingly still hot, it is a bit like a pizza pocket - a dome-like mound of bread, filled with bocconcini, tomato and ham. Yum!

Feeling revitalised, I walk down the Paseo de los Artisanias, past a band set up in the park, pounding out their Spanish rock tunes, and over the pedestrian bridge to what I thought was the museum (a large imposing building is usually the key). But I soon realise that this impressive building is actually the Law School of the University of Buenos Aires, and the museum is actually the red building in front.

Not quite the building I expected, with its plain salmon façade, it doesn’t even have a foyer. And as I work through the various rooms, it continues to prove itself an interesting design, with lots of little rooms and small hallway galleries full of an interesting collection of local and international art.

By far the stand-out is the black and white photographic exhibition by Albelardo Morell. His cleverly focussed double exposures pit the contemporary against the historical as we wanders through the collection of the Museo Gardner. His money series also highlights his ability to play with subjects, changing perspectives to make them transcend time and space. Pure genius.

Buenos, Buenos Aires

After a shower and some email catch-up I head to the bank, to hopefully score more than the 300 pesos (AUD$ 125) allowance I have been already set by their fine institutions. But two ATMs and a phone call to Westpac in Australia confirm that there are no ways around this. To make matters worse, I am already in debt to a friend whose account has no fees at all, facing a AUD$ 20 international online transfer charge.

I trudge home, raising my spirits a little with a fresh ham, cheese and tomato pastry from a bakery across the road from my hostel, and consider that perhaps Western Union or Paypal will work with me. But I have no luck there either, and will have to just bite the bullet and take the horrendous charges with each transaction – which will have to occur every two days if I am going to eat at all.

In true “stuff it all” Australian fashion, I end up going out for an expensive meal (ie. more than AUD $20) that night with some new friends, before heading to a kinky bordello bar Mundo Bizarro that shows vintage Betty Page bondage tapes. Afterwards, we head to a club Roxy that, despite the high cover charge, is filled with way too many just-over-18s. Needless to say, this doesn’t really amuse me, and after losing the rest of the group, I head back in a taxi with Norwegian Christian.

However, arriving back at the hostel, we run into some of the others, and decided that another drink, with some better company, is much needed before retiring. We stumble across a local bar, the only whiteys there, and are instantly entertained by the many guitars at each table that are playing tango tunes. Impromptu couples get up to dance, and, with all age groups being accounted for, this is definitely the Argentina I came here for.