Having kissed the sand goodbye in Uruguay, it seemed I would also have to farewell the sun too, when rain and traffic delayed my bus’ arrival in BA by three hours. Not wanting to wait any longer, I forwent the cheaper underground option and took a taxi to the hostel. Familiar sights flashed in front of me: dog-walkers struggling with a dozen canines at a time, crowds of people moving back and forth across gargantuan boulevards, and streets littered with “kioskos” all the way to Palermo.
Conscious that my previous stopover was carried out mostly in the midnight hours, I took a warm (it’s never usually hot here) shower, handed in my washing, and set off to the Micro-Centro (city centre) to absorb some history. Squished into the “Subte” (subway), who’s six or so lines are not always working, but are always jammed full of commuters, flower sellers and performers, I made my way to the main Cathedral.
As seems to always be the way in Latin America, mass is on, but unlike in Brazil, tourists are prevented from getting too close to the altar – fair enough I acknowledge reverently. Sadly though, it seems the sanctity of its walls isn’t held up so high, and each of them are covered in peeling paint and exposed plaster. Fortunately though, the intricate flooring below, made up of tiles half the size of postage stamps, makes up for the detail that is lost above.
Smaller chapels line the central atrium, and on either side well knowns (St John the Baptist, St Theresa of Avila) rub shoulders with local favourites (St John Nepomucene, St Louis Gonzaga). But for such a grand building, there are relatively few pews, most of which are full, despite the hour (11am) and the location. But of most interest to visiting eyes is the masouleum of General José de San Martin – the Argentinean leader who was responsible for liberating Chile, and creating the pathway for Peru’s and Lima’s liberation, from Spanish reign.
Wrapped in a rather tired Argentinean flag, he is guarded by two soldiers in full military regalia – something like the red-coated English, although don’t mention the comparison to an Argentine** - under a grand high-vaulted ceiling. He is joined by his comrade in war, General Juan de las Heras, and the obligatory unknown soldier. Some things (in war and peace) are obviously universal.
After paying my various respects, I move out onto the Plaza de Mayo and am greeted by people and pigeons moving about in equal idleness. The standout Casa Rosada sits primly at the other end of the square, with its bovine red (one explanation for its pink outside is that it was originally covered in cow’s blood to stop the effects of humidity, but another, more politically-minded reason says that it was the mixing of two opposing – red and white – political factions colours) façade. I don’t know why, but I can’t help humming “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” as I think of Evita’s final speech made on the balcony above.
Unfortunately the museum is “not functioning” at the moment, and as I follow the view from its doorway, which looks out onto the HQ of the Economic Minister, I attempt to put it down to some really bad feng shui. In fact, as I wander around the front of the building and see the national bank of Argentina smiling back at me (and having recently read Dan Brown’s “Angels and Demons”) I start to wonder if there are perhaps some secret tunnels here syphoning off the country’s money.
Taking these thoughts with me, I head back to the roots of BA, to the Manzana de las Luces – the supposed historical block of Enlightenment to see if I can gain a few answers. But as I step inside the oldest church in the city, Iglesia San Ignacio, and sit on pew almost covered in its dust of its original paint the plaster, I am pretty worried about who has obviously snuffed the light.
I blindly hope my final pitstop, one favoured by the country’s most esteemed writers, intellectuals and artists will prove more telling. But again, Café Tortoni, with its dirty ceilings, dated wallpaper, mix of pictures, paintings, trinkets, and busts of people who frequented it in earlier days, is nothing more than a sad relic from a much too distant past. And the black and white clad waiters, who busy themselves around me, can do little but remind me of Manuel and his home at Faulty Towers.
**It seems Argentineans all have VERY long memories when it comes to England, Maggie Thatcher, and the Falkland Islands - don't EVER mention the war.
Posts
