Tango travels
A Wellingtonian in Buenos Aires
Neville Waisbrod
And so the obsession continues...
The Place: Buenos Aires
The Time: May/June/July 2004
Taxi driver at the airport: 'You have come to BA for tango? I sing you tango' and sings tango ballads all the way to the hotel. He has a captive audience for sure. OK, I know I am in BA. No mistake about it. The hotel clerk: 'How long you stay?' I write a question mark down. 'OK, no problemo.'
In my room I find the bedside lamp blown and go down to reception and get a spare. Screw it in and blow the entire hotel’s fuse. Ten minutes later the lights go on and down to reception – if you could call it that - with the lamp. The receptionist's boyfriend fixes it proudly with his Swiss knife and a big smile. It works this time. All 40 watts. There is an energy crisis here and the optometrists must be making a fortune.
First night out dancing. The milongas – dance halls – are much the same as the last time here. Still smoky and the same core crowd with a mixture of tourist tango junkies, like me.
Crew Cut Cool:
Fifty something, stocky, jet black dyed crew cut, gold earring and smart suit and tie. Dances every night virtually only with the local good dancers – he is good. 'He is a stupid man, but here he is a king,' Says local Alicia adding that most of the old milongueros – older dancers who have been dancing for many years are stupid. 'Ignorant' I correct her. 'No, stupid' she says. OK, so her English isn’t that bad.
Arty Alicia:
Bumped into her at Canning. We danced the last time I was in BA and she recognised me, and I her. 'Why didn’t you email me that you were coming?' Because I am a dork and don’t give a shit about my friends in BA.
As I said, good English, part time artist, weekend dancer, and over lunch says 'you have only been to therapy for one year, why only one year?'
It seems that here you go for life, no less. Argentina apparently has the highest rate [per capita] of psychiatrists in the world and if you are not seeing one, then you have a problem.
Two days at the hotel and I have found an apartment. In San Telmo. I take the wrong street number down and after looking lost for ten minutes a woman comes up to me. 'All New Zealanders are tall so you must be Neville.' Looking lost probably helped. She is with her mother – don’t trust those gringos - who runs a tango guesthouse. Noisy, warm, cosy and a 24-hour tango channel. Next to a subte station, which is great.
Sad Sam:
Alicia’s friend, weekend dancer, leather factory owner, 60 something, divorced 15 years and four relationships later. 'Everyone comes here looking for someone, it’s hard to find someone who will be like you want them to be. (Tell me about it) I only like to dance seperado – open embrace – the other way is too close for me.' Alicia rolls her eyes back.
Luciana:
Fifty something, ex super model, tall, dances every night, serious breast enhancement job, and a bit of a mess with the facial plastic surgery.
Sam says, 'It was from an accident.' Not sure if the surgery was an accident, or as a result of an accident, and nor is he. Usually shares a table with her girlfriends.
Bum Bag Bad Boy:
Thirty something, sloppy dresser, seriously bent knee dancer, ponytail and a huge bumbag – God knows what he keeps in it. Always tries the hand on heart, and more, thingy with the tourists, to the giggles of the local women. 'Another forastera (foreigner), falls for it.' It’s his thing.
Japanese Wower:
Tall, slim, great dresser, living in BA for tango, daily dancer, and a slow dancer to die for. Thirty-second adornos – embellishments – with the crowd enjoying it as much as her partner, well nearly. Not sure if she is still with her Japanese boyfriend, but they don’t sit together - this is usual if the woman wants to dance with other men - and dance occasionally together which is poetry in slow motion. A lean that puts the Tower of Pisa to shame.
Bad Breath Brown Suit:
Ugly as hell, always the same brown suit, lousy posture, 60 something, a walker i.e. walks around the perimeter and asks for dances at two metres – hard for the tourists to refuse. Apparently has a great voice and occasionally sings the song in the woman’s ear while dancing. Not very popular with some of the locals. 'He burned me with a cigarette once' says one, showing a small scar on her forearm.
Norwegian Scientist:
Cora, gorgeous marine biologist with a shy smile, here for four months to dance. Great dancer and knows how to let go. 'I have a boyfriend in BA' one minute into the conversation – did I ask? They sit separately and leave separately so that it won’t affect her chances to get dances – as if it would.
Natalie:
Air France stewardess. Here for two weeks. Lovely dancer.
Sue:
Friend of a friend I met here last time. Teaching English and living here. The last time I was here she had just broken up with her boyfriend and was in a bad way. Has a new one now, tango teacher to boot. 'But he hardly dances with me.'
Lunch with Sue. Meets local friend who starts discussing her love life. On her new boyfriend: 'We have decided only to be lovers, two or three
times a week. He is ten younger than me so I cannot get too serious and it is simpler this way,' she says with a smile. Simply put. She got hooked on tango six months ago, has eight hours of lessons a week and has started learning to play the bandoneon! 'I’ll be a show tango dancer in one year.' Go for it gal! I feel healthy now. Had a soy steak for lunch as Sue is a vegetarian.
Opera buskers in San Telmo on Sunday – amazing voices, two singers accompanied by piano. Bumped into Natalie there.
Bum Bag Bad Boy has incident with tourist after sneaking a kiss on her mouth after a dance in Porteño y Bailarin. She causes a scene on the floor and walks out. No problemo, he does exactly the same thing with the next American tourist he dances with. Looks like this one’s going for it. As I said, it’s his thing.
Fell in love with Natalie at Porteño y Bailarin tonight for a full ten minutes.
Mistook Cora for Natalie at Ideal this afternoon. Embarrassing. Memory must be going. They don’t even look the same. Cora is blonde and Natalie a brunette - I think.
Cora, James and I celebrated Cora’s break-up with her boyfriend tonight with a bottle of champagne. James is from Sydney, they are staying at the same tango guesthouse. This was at Canning. Cora is sad. We all make a toast to love. Promptly fell in love with Cora for 20 minutes of tango waltzes. James asks Cora to dance. She shakes her head. Poor bugger.
James’s friend from Australia is freaking out. He has been here for a week and has not asked anyone to dance yet. 'I get an anxiety attack every time I want to do the eye contact thing, break out in a cold sweat.' I remember the feeling well.
Dinner with Natalie before going to La Nacional. 'Every dance is an adventure. You don't know what's going to happen when you dance in a strange place. Tango is like life; it’s the communication that’s important, not the performance. Why do men feel that they have to perform?' How the hell should I know?
Cora at La Nacional: 'He hasn’t rung, I keep leaving messages but he doesn’t ring.' I notice the great dimples even when she frowns. She is
dressed to kill and by the end of the night has half the men there obsessed with her. There is no dancer like a tragic dancer. She has no trouble getting dances all night. Another 20 minutes in love. My feet are killing me, I am off to bed.' When she walks out it’s like the Royal
Salute at the Queen's Birthday parade. All the women smile, they can relax again and maybe get some dancing in now.
Alicia (2):
Jet black hair down to her waist. Gorgeous anthropologist. Awesome dresser - no one likes to dance with a slob. Always arrives late and sits alone. Doesn’t seem to socialize much with the locals. A bit of English and we dance at each venue. One tanda - three dances only. Usually a waltz. 'You like vals?' Was it that obvious?
The Old Lady of Tango:
Short, plump and sits with a group. Always gets the best table in the house. Always eats dinner with champagne at the milonga. Always on time and seems to have been there forever. I dance with her about twice a week. She has a great smile and appreciates the dance - she only dances about twice a night. Chats with friend the rest of the night. Does graceful boleos for about half a minute. The top of her head is all I can see when we dance.
Bella (2):
Teacher who gave me a lesson the last time in BA. Asked her to marry me – I think that she thought that I was serious - through a translator then but she said she was already married - bugger. Daily dancer, tall and physical to dance with on an empty floor, a bit like Russian Olga. Not a word of English but enough to give me a hard time about not knowing any Spanish after four trips here. Always there with
her red haired friend who dances only with locals.
Breakfast next door. 'Only one medialuna left.' I usually have three there. Hell, there’s a bakery next door.
Lunch from the sandwich bar across the road, again. Number 9 promotion, again, three empanadas and a coke for 3.50 pesos. Heat them up in the small oven back home. My email global roaming is working again after three days. Filed my GST return. Now I am truly free for the next two months.
Not done any serious work here and it's already two weeks.
Tried to sell a fishhook remover here for a friend who makes them back in NZ. Got the whole spiel from the guy here about how the fish’s mouths are maybe different here, how they couldn’t give a shit about not harming the fish because they eat them and don’t throw them back like the dorks in NZ - and how he can get them cheaper made from plastic out of China. Just say no, practise your English on someone else, and save my ears for two hours you arsehole. 'Here’s my friend’s card if you change your mind.' I may write a book on fish hook removers. It’ll be sure to make the best-seller list. Mind you, I make and sell something interesting like furniture hardware…
Tall woman at a lesson. Average dancer, German. 'You have to feel the energy between us.' Obviously straight from her teacher’s mouth. She had as much energy as an AAA battery - a flat one at that. At least she was tall and had a nice smile. We danced better at the milonga.
Niño Bien last night. Had a lovely dance with a German dancer here for ten days. 'I have to go home on Saturday, I don’t want to go home.' Nearly in tears. She has a great smile, is a good dancer, speaks English, and is tall. I don’t want her to go home either. She is coming back in August, only two months away.
Pauline and friend from Holland:
Pauline, works in a bank, not sure if she is a clerk or if she owns the bank, and her friend, a psychoanalyst. Here for three weeks to dance. Pauline is a smiler so she gets lots of dances. Tall, and a lovely dancer after a few wines. Her friend, a little glum, is not having a good time.
Not as good a dancer as Pauline. They are staying at a tango guest house in San Telmo. They say it is very nice but very noisy next to a motorway. On their last day here we go for breakfast after dancing. A submarino (chocolate in hot milk) goes down very well after a long
night’s dancing.
Had dinner last night with Barbara and Susanna at Barbara’s place. Nice apartment. They are both friends of Rachael’s, the friend I met here last time. Susanna is a local, speaks a little English but spent time on a kibbutz and speaks Hebrew. Barbara speaks English – she is English - and Spanish so there was a three-language conversation going on. Had too much wine and went to El Beso with Adriane. Struggled to dance after all the wine and left early.
Sunday today and sunny. Went to San Telmo market today. A bit of a lonely day for me wandering around the market. Lots of buskers out. Came home and did some work and emailing. Cora rang. She has made up with her boyfriend and is happy now. I am pleased for her. There goes her lovely tragic dancing.
On the news, Israel looks like it is withdrawing all settlements from Gaza. Good news.
Incident at Porteño y Bailarin tonight. Natalie gives me the nod and another local thinks it’s for him. We reach her together and she tries to
explain it to him in English. No can do and he gets upset and demands to dance with her. She is a bit flustered and I back off to her relief, and she has the dance with him. He comes up to me afterwards and says 'gracias.' Grassy ass yourself. Thanks for what? Being a dorky macho Porteño? Last time he’ll get the nod from her. I have the next one with her. 'Thanks, lucky we are friends.'
There is a shortage of women tonight. Primal stuff. The next guy she dances with is drunk and keeps telling her that her nose is hurting his
cheek. They last one dance only. Not a good night for her and she leaves. Only two
more nights for her in Buenos Aires.
I wake up with a bad cold and spend the day at home. At seven in the evening I go out for some fresh air and there are six police cars outside. There has just been an armed robbery at the small supermarket across the road. There are about five staff and they look very, very shaken. Five cars leave and the one stays on to take details.
Read in the paper this morning that there was a shootout between the police and the robbers across the road yesterday. With noise levels in the centre of the city recorded at 100db, no wonder I didn’t hear anything.
Been in bed for three days with a bad cold. Last night went to Sue’s birthday party at a restaurant. Mainly English crowd. Nice evening had by all. They went on to an Irish pub and I went back to bed.
Back into it now. Had four hours of lessons yesterday and a milonga.
Went to a concert tonight at the Teatro Colón. A trio played a classical recital to a full house and then played Piazzolla to a standing ovation. Piano, flute and cello. What amazing sound and acoustics. I cried a lot to the Piazzolla pieces.
Got lots of work done this week.
Taking two hours a day private lessons with Daniel, Sue’s partner. He is from the school of Dinzel, part of Rivarola’s crowd. We take the lessons at Sue’s school – she teaches English there. Her boss encourages cultural activities for staff at the school. Sue acts as a translator and 'body.'
She is a bit of a leaner – down that is – no wonder he doesn’t dance much with her. I tell her she is leaning and she is grateful and tells me to remind her when she does, which is half a dozen times a lesson. It works.
I also have the occasional group milonguero and milonga lesson.
Went to the Contemporary Ballet at the San Martín Theatre. A great show! Afterwards walked down to the Obelisco and saw the celebrations of the Boca soccer team who had just won the league. Many thousands of crazy fans hooting, screaming, fireworks and completely stopping all traffic in the central city.
Saw an English play last night. Having a real cultural week.
Stopped smoking and feel great.
Got lots of work done today and yesterday.
Canning with Susanna and Barbara. They have a good laugh because some guy tried to suck Barbara’s earlobe during a dance. I suggested she lace it with garlic next week.
Went to a classical ballet show at the Colón with Sue. Not that hot. Went into some café for a coffee afterwards and there were tango singers doing their thing there. Great voices and it lasted about an hour. Nice end to the evening and decided to give dancing a miss as it was 2:00am already.
Supposed to meet a travel agent in the area and get an email from her. 'Hello Neville be careful, there is an incident of hostages. It is in the street Piedras to 100. Take care.' I am at 450 of the same street. I switch on the TV and sure enough it’s just down the road. Lasts for three hours. No one is hurt.
Flew north to the Iguazu falls for three days with Cora. God, was she boring. Just proves that a gorgeous great dancer can be boring. As if I didn’t know it. All she could talk about was Cora, Cora, Cora. Anyway it was a good insight into a woman’s point of view of tango here. The sucky earlobe guy came up again amongst other things not fit for publication.
'Do you think Fabian and I will make a good couple?' This is two weeks before her leaving here and she still has her boyfriend waiting back in BA. Interesting. Fabian is one of the better dancers here.
The falls were amazing though and I took a boat ride under them – freaky experience. The most amazing thing on our safari were the butterflies. All shapes and sizes with bright colourful patterns, and lots of them.
Arty Alicia calls. She has been sick in bed for a week. 'Have you forgotten me?' Had I? 'Definitely not, I was in Iguazu for a few days.' Why is my nose bumping into the monitor?
Two weeks and still not smoking. It’s been easy and I feel good.
After six weeks the apartment seems much smaller that when I arrived here. A bit too small.
Got my new shoes today from Leo. Also got my practice ones delivered today.
My last night and eight of us go out for a meal and to the milonga together.
Susanna after a dance with some guy: 'He was a mistake of mine last year.'
Well, we all make mistakes......
For reasons of privacy some of the names have been
changed.
Nation and Dance in Argentina
Runner up, AA Directions Magazine Best New Travel Writer of the Year Award
Kevin L. Jones
Kevin L. Jones
I
The generals have had their day. Now the disappeared, the leftist youth hated by the generals and the nationalist right, are having theirs. The current President Christina Kirchner is a Neo-Peronist; she tries to gather to her government the rhetoric and aura of Eva Perón.
One government programme is the commemoration of the disappeared. There is a museum in Cordoba, the old central police station and cells, where the wall are plastered with the faces of the disappeared and the slogan, in Spanish: “That only their mothers could see them again."
Their faces are so young. Some are young mothers, their children adopted out after the mother’s death.
The government now sponsors the investigation and matching of DNA of these children (now approaching middle age). Some of the children reject any attempt to re-unite then with their grandmothers. In some cases, children had been adopted into the families of the very policemen who had arrested their mothers.
The government prepares and publishes inflation rates that are absurdly low. The reason? Government bonds and pensions are tied to them. Even then, they do not transfer enough money to the states such as Cordoba to pay the pensions. In Cordoba protesters against the failure of pension payments were blasting off the frontages of the government buildings.
In this and in many other ways the Argentine attempt to govern seems doomed to farce.
In Buenos Aires, the Capital Federal, on the square in the front of the Casa Rosada (the presidential palace), veterans of the Malvinas (the Falklands War) have established a permanent tent camp. It is occupied by the physically and mentally disabled. The police have never questioned their presence.
Everyday at 6 pm, the official palace guard, in their tassled dress uniforms and long boots, lower the sky-blue and white stripes and the bold sun of the Argentine flag. As the flag comes down, a bugle sounds.
The veterans shout across the square: “Viva! Viva! Viva Argentina!"
II
In Buenos Aires an old under-current of Argentine national life goes on. It is a tourist industry as well, promoted as part of the image of the city. It is the tango.
El Beso off Corrientes (the glossy entertainment district) has the same name as the tango club mentioned in some old canciónes (songs) but it’s a modern place and the floor is small. Dancing starts at 11 p.m. and will go to 3 a.m.
The floor is hierarchical. The seating is allocated, fine-tuned and strictly policed by a hostess/club manager who is usually a woman. If you don’t ring ahead and book, you won’t be given a good seat. The hostess will speak some English or try hard to understand your Spanish, or put you on to someone who can. Argentines are naturally hospitable and want to help.
Because of the crowding, the dancers on the floor move in a circulating organic way, not much individuality in any couple’s dance, unless you look closely. It’s rude to stare, but with so much distinctive dance and grace and musicality on offer it’s hard not to.
In the cortina (curtain), before and after a tanda (bracket of three or four songs), the floor is empty. The milongueros (male dancers) are lined up sitting on one side and the milongueras (females) on the wall diagonally opposite, and the same for the other two sides.
When the first canción starts, the cabeceo routine is strictly followed. The floor is empty. The man catches woman’s eye, woman looks back, he nods and, if she nods in reply, then he strolls directly across suppressing a look of triumph. Beso beso, kiss kiss, and then a chat before the dance. In a minute the floor is full.
Never ask directly. A refusal is certain. In the end there’s a kind of face-saving behind it all. Only one or two people ever know who has asked and who has refused.
The top punters are the old guys who lasted through the suppression of tango by the generals. The top milongueras dance with a look of abstract devotion and concentration cheek to cheek with their partner. The women wear beautifully made and coloured, skittishly high-heeled shoes with skimpy skirts over short black leggings, black hair in a chignon (pulled up in a bun at the back). They mostly wanting to dance with the old guys, with the pot bellies and comb-overs who represent the true tradition of a dance that the generals tried to suppress.
Before the first canción, there is a lot of concentrated looking around the room, especially by the milongueras. The cabeceo is over within a minute. By the second canción those who have missed out in the duelling look as if whistling away into the distance, discomfited by the brutality.
Rock and roll and then the generals’ suppression of social gatherings (and tango followers can be anarchic) nearly killed off the tango.
The musicians and composers of a hundred years of tango are celebrated throughout the city. At Cemeterio Chacarita, you will find Carlos Gardel’s tomb. Gardel turned the tango song of the 1920s from a steadily rhythmic dirge, lamenting the fates, to lilting melodies celebrating romance: “Mi Buenos Aires Querido” (My Beloved City).
Parents lift their kids up to stand by him and they take photos. There have been hundreds of bronze plaques, quite a few stolen.
And they always light a cigarette in Carlos’s hand, a bit like the Kupe statue on the Wellington waterfront. On Sunday morning his wife often has a beer can in hand.
Gardel died in a plane crash in Brazil in the 1930s. The vast city of Buenos Aires stood still as the ship carrying his casket docked on the Rio Plata.
III
Feria Mataderos is the old street market in the district where cattle, for a few decades the source of the great wealth of Argentina, were slaughtered. It’s in the outer suburbs, a 30 peso taxi ride: a dodgy area and not touristy.
Mataderos is also the site of the Museum of the Gaucho. A covered wagon has a long pole raised out over where the oxen would be, lines on runners with little iron stars on them like fishing line sinkers. The drovers would drop the pointy stars on to the heads of the oxen (4 or 6) to
make them get going. There’s a wall painted to the dead of the Malvinas.
The best thing about Mataderos is the folk dance and the singing.
The Argentines dance zamba and other folk dances from the provinces such as San Juan with such simple devotion and grace. The crowd, maybe 5,000 people clustered before the stage, opens up in a long rift as miraculous as the crossing of the Red Sea. A hundred couples fill the rift and dance the chacarera: flirtatious, sweeping, rhythmic with spells of hand clapping and stamping feet.
The oldest gaucho in the world parades about. He’s in good humour, wizened in a striped sky-blue and white poncho.
Mataderos is a museum of Argentine nationalism. The lost gauchos and pampas, the national colours, the living song and folk dance: symbols of a lost, innocent Argentina. It’s not a ridiculous idea for a divided, grandiose, impoverished, blood-spattered nation.
The generals have had their day. Now the disappeared, the leftist youth hated by the generals and the nationalist right, are having theirs. The current President Christina Kirchner is a Neo-Peronist; she tries to gather to her government the rhetoric and aura of Eva Perón.
One government programme is the commemoration of the disappeared. There is a museum in Cordoba, the old central police station and cells, where the wall are plastered with the faces of the disappeared and the slogan, in Spanish: “That only their mothers could see them again."
Their faces are so young. Some are young mothers, their children adopted out after the mother’s death.
The government now sponsors the investigation and matching of DNA of these children (now approaching middle age). Some of the children reject any attempt to re-unite then with their grandmothers. In some cases, children had been adopted into the families of the very policemen who had arrested their mothers.
The government prepares and publishes inflation rates that are absurdly low. The reason? Government bonds and pensions are tied to them. Even then, they do not transfer enough money to the states such as Cordoba to pay the pensions. In Cordoba protesters against the failure of pension payments were blasting off the frontages of the government buildings.
In this and in many other ways the Argentine attempt to govern seems doomed to farce.
In Buenos Aires, the Capital Federal, on the square in the front of the Casa Rosada (the presidential palace), veterans of the Malvinas (the Falklands War) have established a permanent tent camp. It is occupied by the physically and mentally disabled. The police have never questioned their presence.
Everyday at 6 pm, the official palace guard, in their tassled dress uniforms and long boots, lower the sky-blue and white stripes and the bold sun of the Argentine flag. As the flag comes down, a bugle sounds.
The veterans shout across the square: “Viva! Viva! Viva Argentina!"
II
In Buenos Aires an old under-current of Argentine national life goes on. It is a tourist industry as well, promoted as part of the image of the city. It is the tango.
El Beso off Corrientes (the glossy entertainment district) has the same name as the tango club mentioned in some old canciónes (songs) but it’s a modern place and the floor is small. Dancing starts at 11 p.m. and will go to 3 a.m.
The floor is hierarchical. The seating is allocated, fine-tuned and strictly policed by a hostess/club manager who is usually a woman. If you don’t ring ahead and book, you won’t be given a good seat. The hostess will speak some English or try hard to understand your Spanish, or put you on to someone who can. Argentines are naturally hospitable and want to help.
Because of the crowding, the dancers on the floor move in a circulating organic way, not much individuality in any couple’s dance, unless you look closely. It’s rude to stare, but with so much distinctive dance and grace and musicality on offer it’s hard not to.
In the cortina (curtain), before and after a tanda (bracket of three or four songs), the floor is empty. The milongueros (male dancers) are lined up sitting on one side and the milongueras (females) on the wall diagonally opposite, and the same for the other two sides.
When the first canción starts, the cabeceo routine is strictly followed. The floor is empty. The man catches woman’s eye, woman looks back, he nods and, if she nods in reply, then he strolls directly across suppressing a look of triumph. Beso beso, kiss kiss, and then a chat before the dance. In a minute the floor is full.
Never ask directly. A refusal is certain. In the end there’s a kind of face-saving behind it all. Only one or two people ever know who has asked and who has refused.
The top punters are the old guys who lasted through the suppression of tango by the generals. The top milongueras dance with a look of abstract devotion and concentration cheek to cheek with their partner. The women wear beautifully made and coloured, skittishly high-heeled shoes with skimpy skirts over short black leggings, black hair in a chignon (pulled up in a bun at the back). They mostly wanting to dance with the old guys, with the pot bellies and comb-overs who represent the true tradition of a dance that the generals tried to suppress.
Before the first canción, there is a lot of concentrated looking around the room, especially by the milongueras. The cabeceo is over within a minute. By the second canción those who have missed out in the duelling look as if whistling away into the distance, discomfited by the brutality.
Rock and roll and then the generals’ suppression of social gatherings (and tango followers can be anarchic) nearly killed off the tango.
The musicians and composers of a hundred years of tango are celebrated throughout the city. At Cemeterio Chacarita, you will find Carlos Gardel’s tomb. Gardel turned the tango song of the 1920s from a steadily rhythmic dirge, lamenting the fates, to lilting melodies celebrating romance: “Mi Buenos Aires Querido” (My Beloved City).
Parents lift their kids up to stand by him and they take photos. There have been hundreds of bronze plaques, quite a few stolen.
And they always light a cigarette in Carlos’s hand, a bit like the Kupe statue on the Wellington waterfront. On Sunday morning his wife often has a beer can in hand.
Gardel died in a plane crash in Brazil in the 1930s. The vast city of Buenos Aires stood still as the ship carrying his casket docked on the Rio Plata.
III
Feria Mataderos is the old street market in the district where cattle, for a few decades the source of the great wealth of Argentina, were slaughtered. It’s in the outer suburbs, a 30 peso taxi ride: a dodgy area and not touristy.
Mataderos is also the site of the Museum of the Gaucho. A covered wagon has a long pole raised out over where the oxen would be, lines on runners with little iron stars on them like fishing line sinkers. The drovers would drop the pointy stars on to the heads of the oxen (4 or 6) to
make them get going. There’s a wall painted to the dead of the Malvinas.
The best thing about Mataderos is the folk dance and the singing.
The Argentines dance zamba and other folk dances from the provinces such as San Juan with such simple devotion and grace. The crowd, maybe 5,000 people clustered before the stage, opens up in a long rift as miraculous as the crossing of the Red Sea. A hundred couples fill the rift and dance the chacarera: flirtatious, sweeping, rhythmic with spells of hand clapping and stamping feet.
The oldest gaucho in the world parades about. He’s in good humour, wizened in a striped sky-blue and white poncho.
Mataderos is a museum of Argentine nationalism. The lost gauchos and pampas, the national colours, the living song and folk dance: symbols of a lost, innocent Argentina. It’s not a ridiculous idea for a divided, grandiose, impoverished, blood-spattered nation.
