Boca-day

Having considered myself lucky to be in BA at the same time as BAFICI, I was keen to experience as much as I could of the two week event, and so had pre-booked tickets for four films in the next few days. Setting off early to the Hoyts cinema in the Abasto Shopping Centre, I went to watch my second film, a Danish one, “The Blessing", and its tale of a first-time mother’s struggle to overcome post-natal depression.

Emerging about as moody as the overhead grey, I decided perhaps it was time that I took the bus out to Boca, to see its famed rainbow of buildings, and visit the glory ground of Diego Maradona. Again though, it was another frustrating experience on the bus, scrambling to get my correct fair. Unfortunately it seems Argentina has a real fear and loathing for giving out small (coin) change, and most shopping and monetary adventures will end with a face wince and plea for something smaller, should your purchase require said coin.

But in a place where no one gives you change, the irony exists when you are somehow expected to have it to pay for public transport. Indeed all the buses in BA are fitted with coin-operated machines that have awkward tariffs of (Argentinean) $1.10, $1.20 and $1.25. And so, as I scrambled to fill the slot with the required amount, I suddenly realised I was 5 centavos short (less than 2 cents Australia), and had nothing else to offer but notes. One look from the driver confirmed that this was not an option, but luckily he took pity on me, and adjusted the price to suit my budget.

Unfortunately though, he was not amused a second time when I dropped one of the precious flea-sized 5 centavos, and shot me a look of disgust after we both watched it roll out the door.

And it seemed the sombre mood was everywhere, with a public holiday commemorating the death of the first democratically elected Argentinean president – although I still can’t figure out who this is. Some of the shops on the main strip in the centre were open, but with the massive Argentinean flag flying at half-mast out behind the Casa Rosada, and blue ribbons adorning the chests of some men on my bus, most people had chosen to stay indoors.

What looked like quite a direct route on the map of course turned into a street-cruising saga that could rival any of the popular telenovelas (trashy Latin American soaps), and with most of the streets running the length of the city, I am sure we zig-zagged past by my street at least twice.

Finally we arrived, and the Boca Bridge groaned a hello from the stagnant stench of La Matanza River (The Slaughter River, but better known by the less-fitting name “El Riachuelo” - The Little River). Cars rattled back and forth along its orange iron-frame middle, and it was not long before I got stopped by the police, who are keen to warn me about having my camera out to take photos.

Sadly the waterfront walkway isn’t much to look at, and could be pretty if only President Memem’s Secretary of Environment, María Julia Alsogaray, wasn’t being charged with embezzling the most of the $250 million set aside in 1993 to clean it up. Instead it is a sludgy mess of sunken ship hulls and toxic waste from nearby tanneries that keeps car tyres poking out at random intervals.

Eager to get away from the rotten mess, I walk down to the Caminito – pedestrian street – where Boca’s famous multi-coloured buildings appear stuffed with every shape and form of tourist trappings. Music and amateur performers line the streets as bright washing hangs strategically from most windows.

Struggling to find much of interest, I head down to bright yellow and blue shell of La Bombonera – Boca Junior’s home stadium – and walk along its starred walk of fame that decorates the grey pavement. And it appears nothing has escaped the patriotic paintbrush – even the forklifts are striped.

I make my way into the “Boquense” Museum (it seems they have a whole dictionary of Boca-related terms), passing through the supporter shop that carries everything from baby clothes to underpants and sombreros. A large monument to Maradona, bathed in yellow light, stands at the entrance, and fortunately for him, it is a more flattering pre-cocaine addiction depiction.

Along the first wall are the stars of supporters’ names, and a roll call of all players who have represented Boca since 1905. In the main area, is progression of jerseys that the club has worn. Interestingly their first kit was actually light blue, the second pink, the third black and white striped, and it was not until 1913 that they finally settled on their current colours (reportedly after losing a match against a team with the same stripes, and having to change, Boca decided to take their choice from the next boat that sailed into the port - which just happened to be Swedish). Also there are dedications to their teams' many idols, trophies they have won, including the South American cup from 2006, and a filmic wall of the club’s lifespan, extravagantly produced over about 50 tv screens and dvd players.

I finally pass through the museum doors, past some “Boca Arte” on display and out onto the field. But it is a lot smaller patch of green than I had expected. Perhaps it is my instant comparison to Australian rules, but the boxes, seats and bleachers, which appear in descending order of importance and maintenance, all seem to hover rather stupidly over the grass, diminishing its size even further. Its no wonder too, when I try to get tickets for the game on Sunday, that I find out the power the fans hold when pre-game fighting between the two sides forces the match to be closed off to spectators.

I Am Not Crying, But I Am Sure You Would Be Yelling at Madonna, Evita

Strolling through the Botanical Gardens near the end of my hostel’s street, I bump into my Australian roommate Jacquie and we decide to head off together to the Evita Museum. And finally it seems Latin America has got their conservation of historical sources right, although I am not so convinced by the repetitive tango music that accompanies everything, including her burial procession.

Located in the Hogar de Transito No. 2 – one of Evita’s housing projects for abused women – the museum contains a vast collection of film archives, clothes, and sources materials from her start as a radio actress, to her role alongside her husband in government. We walk through and see first-hand both the animosity and the outpouring she invoked throughout her life, with live footage showing several of her famous speeches, her work in fighting for the rights of workers, women, families, children and the elderly to be recognised in Argentina’s constitution, and the mutilation her bodied suffered at the hands of the military, after her death from cancer, aged 33.

And so it seems, neither of us knew the extent to which she and her husband Juan Domingo Perón had influenced Argentinean society, with Eva personally creating schools, medical and social research institutions, homes for the abused and underprivileged and even sporting championships for children in her role as Minister of both Health and Labour, and through her own Fundación Eva Peron.

Leaving us with much to ponder over, we were glad to stumble across the best lunch, and the most modern bathroom I have experienced yet in South America. A pumpkin and blue cheese tart was quickly washed down with a glass of chilled chardonnay, sparkling water and coffee – all for less than AUD$14. We felt very rewarded for our few hours of heavy reading and contemplation.

We then took a stroll through the Japanese Garden, with its strange connection to the city (the jury is still out on that one), making our way towards MALBA (Museum of Latin American Art) to buy tickets for BAFICI – the Buenos Aires Festival Internacional de Cine Independiente – which was running until the end of the week. We decided that a coffee was needed before heading inside –a close runner for the most expensive one I have ever had at AUD$5 – to experience the three floors of art and design.

First up were some 1900-1960 offerings from Mexico, sponsored by the country’s national bank, and including major names like Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo (although her solitary still life of fruit and corn didn’t really satiate my hunger). Following that was a collection of black and white photographs from Manuel Álvarez Bravo - gelatin silver prints from the 30s and 40s which were also a little hit and miss for my modern eyes.

The final two floors took in Argentinean styles from the 60s onwards, with my newfound favourite, Antonio Berni appearing as many times as the gallery staff, who kept telling me off for taking photographs. (The truth was, that I kept being told “abajo” – below – so I would take my camera out on the next floor, only to later find out that they were meaning just the entry foyer). Luckily the bookshop underground was not so out of bounds, and I was allowed to snap away at its cozy design.

Finally making it home just before dark, Jacquie and were still inspired by the day’s events, to stay home and rent “Evita” from a nearby video store – but what a mistake that was! Nothing like what we had been told at her museum, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s musical, adapted for film and directed by Alan Parker, painted Argentina’s favourite in such a horrible light, I really wondered how it had made it in the country. (Saying that, the government did actually realease its own film biography – “Eva Perón” – to correct the blinding distortions…which includes her singing alongside Che Guevara and sleeping her way to the top). As if smashing her corpse’s nose and covering her embalmed feet in tar was not enough.

Holy Halva

Having done my best to do justice to a AUD$4 bottle of vodka, I thought I was pretty prepared to take on the bank in the morning, and attempt to swap over my fake notes. A receptionist at the hostel made it sound easy enough when she said I could just change them over the counter. But when I entered inside the Banco Nacional de Argentina, I realised that it might prove a little more challenging.

More like one of WA’s Licensing Centres, where you are issued with a ticket according to your query, there were over 100 people waiting there before me on and around neat rows of chairs, each studying the screens as numbers flicked on and off. Quickly explaining my need, I was given my small square of heat-sensitive paper and made my way to join the masses. And I should have known from the woman beside me, who had come prepared with her crossword book, that it was going to be a long wait. (Plus, with the line at “N998”, my “N47” wasn’t looking too promising).

Sitting down patiently, I counted the 25 tellers and wondered, slightly bemused, that for a country that has no money, why they might have to do so much banking. It was then that I spied the benefits program display beside me in its shiny rectangular glass cabinet – complete with a drill, handmixer, dvd player, selection of wine, and cordless kettle. Perhaps there was a reason to waste half your day crammed into the bank’s foyer.

It was not long though before the constant ding-dong prompt started to get on my nerves, making me feel like I am at a bingo hall or at a live lottery draw. My feelings are further heightened when I realise that most people are hedging their ‘bets’ by choosing multiple enquiry slips. If only I had of played the stupid tourist card. Finally, an hour later, I am summoned for, but my patience goes unrewarded when a flat “no” is spat back at me. Awesome.

And further still, it seems I have the same luck with the bus to Tierra Santa (the world’s only religious theme park) waiting at the wrong bus stop, then getting on the wrong version of the bus I am supposed to catch. (Confused? Well apparently a single bus number is not enough here, and there are often several alternate routes or sub-numbers added, or in my case, four different ways of getting to a destination).

Eventually on the right one, we travel down past the Hipodromo, past the now-dodgy looking club I visited last time I was in town – so underground the sewer rats don’t even go there – and follow the river down around the domestic airport. It is here that we hit the strip of bbq joints that service the truck drivers making deliveries to waiting planes, and I long to indulge my vodka-drenched stomach.

Luckily it seems someone above was listening, because a call comes almost instantly from the driver to get off, right in front of the most magnificent parilla (bbq grill) I have ever experienced. I am already in heaven with its smoky flavours and I haven’t even reached the Holy Land. But as I chomp down on my chimichurri-soaked (add link) “bondiola” (steak roll) I hear the high-vaulted sounds of angels on high – well, across the road at least.

Stepping through the gates, I am immediately confronted with robed attendants manning a confusing maze of passages, buildings and religious landmarks. Apart from the strange tributes to some of the great peacemakers and humanitarians of our time (namely: Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King, Pope John Paul II, Ghandi) the amusement (is that sacreligious?) park has been designed to take in the major highlights of Jesus’ life and some of the most important biblical events and stories. And everything it seems has been painted with the same reverential brush – even the air con.

Over the drone of nearby landing planes, I walk through a mechanised depiction of the Creation of Earth, Jesus’ birth, his Last Supper, and my personal favourite, his Ascension into heaven – performed before us, in all his 10m imposing papier-mâché glory, out of a 15m high custom-built mount, to the rousing sounds of Enya. Inside is also a beautiful photographic collection of Jerusalem’s people and places and some interesting fake relics. Fortunately though, Bethlehem’s toilets aren’t so historical, neither are their cafes, selling ‘typical’ food – lots of halva, Lebanese bread and Pepsi.

My only regret is that I was not there on Saturday or Sunday when the town gets into full swing with biblical musicals pounded out every hour.