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.

Oscar, Oscar, Oscar!!

Seeing how small the town was in my taxi ride last night, I decided to do the walking thing in the morning, and headed to my first landmark – 24 Hour Street. Now I am not sure if it’s name was supposed to be true to life, but when I got there, it seemed that no hours were active anymore. The arcade was completely empty, bar a few dusty cardboard boxes.

Deciding then that Curitiba is perhaps not the best place to place a bet, I made my way along Rua Luis Xavier and onto the “Flower Street”, to find the Praça Tiradentes and its guided tourist bus. Fortunately there were actually flowers there, and the first-ever pedestrian mall in the world was busy with artists, street performers and sellers making the most of the cornflower blue sky and Saturday morning trade.

Finally I was starting to see why Curitiba, with all its flowering colour and greeney, is said to have the most greenspace per head of capita, thus following the standard of living. I quickly located the green (very funny) double-decker, open-top bus and promptly burnt my legs on the shining black vinyl. It was a pretty very civilised affair with Mozart playing to me and the other holidaying couples, posing for photos in between kisses.

The bus did of course retrace my previous steps, but with four allowed stops, and a large route set out, I decided to study the map instead, and plan my journey well. The music turned to a cruising beat, stopping intermittently to give an information recording given in Portuguese, Spanish then English. My first exit was at the Botanical Gardens, created in 1991 in a mock-French style aka Versailles.

Accordingly, it was all dark green hedges and brightly arranged daises and annuals. Pom-pom flowers lined the central walkway up to the hothouse of Brazilian plants, with butterflies and bees competing for air space and sweet food. The metal structure ahead looked impressive enough, but once inside is was a pretty thin collection of plants, the only one to catch my interest was the “palmito” that I have been eating with cheese in empadas.

Behind the back of this, and not mentioned in the guide, was the Coleçao Frans Krajcberg Cultural Centre that wraps around the frame in an insulated half-tube. Unfortunately it was closed for renovation, although I could clearly still half-see an interesting collection inside, I quickly get back on the bus. But this time it is a much older model than the last, with no open top, no second level in fact, no music and a very quiet soundtrack that is easily drowned out by the Brazilian tourists who have already started drinking beer at 11am.

From here I head to Oscar Niemeyer’s art museum (it actually has his name this time), affectionately known as “the eye”, after the shape of its design, and I am again blown away at the simple, yet intricate way he creates and uses space. Inside the main building (ie. the ‘sensible’ pavilion at the rear of the entry eye), are three exhibitions spread across the main floor, with a fantastic dedication to the museum’s namesake on the underground level.

It is here that I learn much about Oscar’s motivation and life, and I gain an even deeper respect for the ease at which he seems to consider the world, and the buildings he creates within it. I am sure he would be proud of the congregation of young students having a picnic-pit-stop outside the exit and perhaps be even tempted to join them as they skate all over his masterpiece.

Blood Roses

Having been kicked out of the hostel for the day, to give the fumigators time to get rid of some nasties, I decided to put my still-pink bod on the bike from hell again and do some more exploring. First stop was the weekly farmer’s market, held at the end of our street, where young boys vied for my attention with their loud “pssssht” catcalls, and encouraged me to part with my scrunched up currency.

Each offering me small tokens of sweetness – berries, melon and some tropical stone-fruit I don’t know the name of – it was almost impossible to push through the swarm of Cariocas (citizens of Rio) with their wheeled trolleys and full arms. Wandering around the small park, I spied a flashy singlet hanging beneath one of the striped tarpaulins and questioned its price. The rather surly-looking proprietor looked me up and down before pulling out three fingers and shoving them towards me. Excitedly I returned to the hostel for the 3 Real to purchase it, knowing that it would save me another day from washing my clothes. (With each complete cycle costing about AUD$15, it is often joked that it is cheaper to buy new in Rio, rather than clean the old).

Unfortunately as I handed over my money, I realised from his mocking laugh that it was actually 30 Real, and that my Portuguese was really no better for the week I have almost spent here. A little defeated by the mistake, I ambled along daring to take photographs of chicken hearts wrapped around their sombre owners, of dripping fish left out in partial sun. A little disgusted with the lack of attention to health and safety, I set off on my wobbly wheels again, to ride over to the Lagoa des Freitas and onto the Botanical Garden.

Moving at a very stop-start pace, given the number of unmountable kerbs, and the lack of room for bikes on the road, I cycled the 7km past the Prefeitura (Council) workers in their orange prison-like jumpsuits, past well-off women and their ‘negra’ nannies, past crazy people of all ages out exercising in the heat of the day, and onto the graffiti covered walls that mark the boundary of the local racecourse.

But it was not long before my ability to slow down on the dodgy brakes was exposed, and I slammed myself into the crossbar, taking the top of my toe off in the process. Aware of the dirt that started to cake itself into my wound, I hobbled into the nearest pharmacy to fix it up.

I finally arrived at the Jardim Botanico (Botanical Garden), and all its two hundred-year old glory, and took my toe and I through an amazing cacti collection that had an impressive array of shapes, colours and sizes. Rather absurdly, many of these were housed in hothouses – like they really needed it. The small lake beside it was equally beautiful with its Amazonian lilypads – which reportedly grow up to a few metres in size, and can hold the weight of a small baby – and still, reflective surfaces. Saddened by the closure of the orchid display, I meandered aimlessly throughout the grounds, back down the central palm tree-lined walkway, in search of the rose garden. But unfortunately it seemed that like the birds in the zoo, these poor plants didn’t fair so well in Rio, and only a shabby collection of anorexic bulbs were to be found.

Not wanting to leave on a downer, I finished off my tour off in the Japanese garden, letting its zen design prepare me for the uphill ride home, and the free caipirinhas that awaited me at the hostel.