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.

Taking the Buenos out of Aires

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.

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.