Sleepy Sunday

Setting off on one of the city’s brightly coloured buses, I soon realise that BA breeds a different kind of bus driver from Rio. More concerned with an ongoing conversation with a passenger standing right beside him than concentrating on the road ahead, he is all wild arms and gestures. Perhaps that is why he has six rear vision mirrors, covering every angle or maybe every lane.

So it seems that Perth and BA at least have one thing in common - almost everything is shut today because it is Sunday – all except the markets. Heading towards the old end of town, San Telmo, I intend to check out the famed antique and collectors one, and although it feels a little seedy as I venture off the bus, I persevere down to the main square.

Closed to cars for pedestrian trade, the cobbled street Defensa is full of over-priced but gorgeous armchairs, chandeliers and designer furniture. But the main activity is happening at the end – where stalls have been set up to sell all sorts of vintage trinkets, phones, jewellery, newspapers, even soft drink bottles. It is by far the best antique pick-up place I have been to.

I stroll down towards it, but can’t help pausing to listen to the animated sounds of eight-piece group “Hormigas Negras”, whose cds I buy a little too easily. A little overwhelmed by all the goods on sale, and all too aware that my bag is much more than its 16kg humble beginnings, I sit down to watch people and an impending tango show. People begin to gather around in anticipation, watching on as a suitably angst-ridden girl sullenly stares back in her scarlet skirt and bustier.

Her partner calmly tries to make technology a part of their routine, but it takes a long time to settle his ipod into song. The music cuts in and out, and when it stops completely, a homeless guy takes over singing and launching into a solo dance. Thankfully the situation is quickly recovered by an older couple keen to show they still have the moves. Sadly their moves last a little too long, and I leave before the lady in red makes her debut.

I walk back to the bus via the Historical Museum, which is being renovated for century celebrations of Argentinean independence, and witness a little of the internal struggle that has shaped its more recent past. But it is all a little heavy and has too many holes to make sense on this sleepy Sunday.

The Museums - Take Two

The next day arrives and again I devote my morning to the Art Museum. This time though, it is my Lonely Planet guide that stumps me, telling me that it is open earlier than it actually is. Having only a few hours to spare before a tour of the favelas (slums), I end up tossing the gallery in for a look at the Historical Museum uptown. And what a strange collection it is.

In the first room, I wander through the indigenous story of Brazil, awed at the beautiful headdresses and jewellery on display. Then it is through what I could only assume was the tale of city progress, (each room has a mix of translations, ranging from extremely eloquent, to barely legible, to totally non-existent) seen through the technological changes in transport – namely the horse-drawn carriages that graced the streets in the mid-1800s.

The next room holds a pretty decent display of the weapons of war that have shaped Brazil’s history, with everything from guns to uniforms, and swords to coins. History painters fill up the spaces with portraits of the various leaders, while concerto music is played in the background. A little incongruous, or perhaps an attempt to dissuade would-be thiefs from stealing the bounty and taking them to the streets?

The final two exhibitions are temporary ones: the first, a strange tribute to Oriental art and culture, featuring ornate carved furniture, jewellery, delicate fans and the painful shoes of some (hopefully) small children. The next is an interesting walk through the “Casas de Brasilero” (Houses of Brazil) seen through Julio de Mato’s black and white tinted lens. Each canvas print is a little eerie and makes each of the residences look even more like the skeletons of the past than they already are. I don’t really know what to make of it all – culturally – but am left hardly any time to contemplate this, before I have to be back at the hostel.