The Year of Living Differently #18: Tango and Not Enough Cash – Puerto Iguazu to Buenos Aires, Argentina

Tango and Not Enough Cash

PUERTO IGUAZU to BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 29 October, 2002
I had to really wash ‘OBRIGADA’ out of my hair. I am now in Argentina, speak Spanish, por favor! Yet, over and over, from last night to after buying a bus ticket this morning, I blurted out “Obrigada…” repeatedly.

I had written an email to Pablo whom I had met in Beijing way back in June and travelled together for one month, crossing three countries, until Moscow. I told him I was coming to Argentina and he had replied that he was in Buenos Aires and was looking forward to meeting me. He could even put me up at his apartment. Excelente!!

So, I told him I would arrive in Buenos Aires on 31 October, as I would spend a day at San Ignacio first.

However, when I arrived at San Ignacio at 3pm or so, it was raining cats and dogs. Suddenly, I did not feel like staying in this miserable-looking drenched town. I made inquiries in a hotel if there was a night-bus to Buenos Aires from here. The lady told me to phone an affiliated company selling bus-tickets to ask.

OK, major test here. Speaking face-to-face in Spanish was moderately OK for one could still use sign languages, the magic of a smile, a knowing look, pointing and hand gestures. But to speak in Spanish on the phone to someone and to understand him was a little trickier. And through the conversation, I am proud to say I managed to figure out there was one bus leaving at 6pm. I thanked him and said I would walk to the office now. (10 blocks away, in the rain) But he kept saying something about a ‘coche’ (car). I declined the offer but he said, ‘gratis’ (free). “Gratis? Oh, obrig… muchas gracias… Por favor, gracias.”

I set the phone down, wondering if I had indeed misunderstood him. Did such excellent service exist? He was driving over to the hotel in the rain just to pick me up to go to his office?

Indeed he arrived and later, after I purchased the ticket, I took out the wet map and wondered if I could still squeeze in some time to visit the San Ignacio Ruinas in the meantime. Again, he offered to drive me to the ruins! I could not decline or refuse him at all. He hurried out to the car just when the heaven opened up some more and POURED all its sorrows out. It was no longer a good idea to visit the ruins at all but my declines now seemed to him to be just trying not to trouble him. And he was very willing to be troubled and would not take ‘no’ for an answer. It rained so hard we could not see out of the window. But he was so kind, I had to at least pretend I would visit the ruins.

I stood at the ticket counter of the ruins for a long time before telling myself, “Hey, whatever… Stop being such a wimp. Enjoy the rain as one enjoys the sun.” and bought a ticket.

I sloshed through the gates of the ruins with ankle-deep water to the museum. A guy working there asked “De donde sos?” (Where are you from?). I peered down at his notebook and found him recording which country the crazy tourists who visited ruins in torrential rain came from. “Singapur.” He promptly wrote, “Japon.” I took his pen and corrected it solemnly. If anything, for the record, I had to make sure that it be noted that this crazy tourist came from the right country.

He then asked if I wanted a guide. Oh no, gracias (’Obrigada’ had been erased with frequent practices.) How could I bear to make someone else come out in the rain with me?

My feet were totally submerged in the flooded field. I dragged them along the grass and rivulets. I was surprised to see two other crazy tourists visiting the ruins as well. Visibility was so low, I could not see far. And when I lifted my head to look at the wall, my eyes were closed because of the pelting rain.

I returned to the museum, wonderfully wet and beamed at the bemused guard, “!Que lindo! !Que bueno!” (How pretty, how good.)

I dried myself at the restaurant opposite and ordered a bife (beef steak). And this would start my streak of bife-eating in this country. While I complained about the over-done, tough, tasteless beef in Brazil, here… just right across the imaginary line called the border, the Argentinians made the most gorgeous, juicy, mouth-watering piece of steak in the entire world. I praised the chef and muttered many thanks to the waitress.

Later, as I prepared to brave the rain once again to walk eight blocks to the office, the owner of the restaurant stopped me. She refused to let me go in the rain. The husband of the waitress had coincidentally just arrived to pick her up. The owner thus asked the waitress to get her husband to drop me off at the office. Oh my goodness!!! The Brazilians had been wonderfully friendly… and the Argentinians appeared to be even more hospitable and kind! I had just gotten three free lifts in a day!

Then, at 6pm, the most perfectly-evolved double-decker bus arrived to pick me up. There were three seats per row. The seat was as spacious as a business-class seat on airplanes. It could recline until almost horizontal. There was a set of pillow and blanket provided. Then, a pretty little stewardess came up and served cookies, drinks, dinner… I could not believe it! After all those horrendous bus-rides in China and Mongolia, this specimen of bus is utopia itself.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 30 October, 2002

By the way, we were even served breakfast too this morning! Incredible.

Throughout the ride, however, police constantly got on the bus to check our documents and possessions. I noted I was singled out to be checked all the time. It felt a little weird for in Brazil, nothing like this ever happened.

And so I arrived in Buenos Aires, one day before the date that I had told Pablo. I could not get him on the phone and had to contact him via email.

When he realised I was already in Buenos Aires, his first reaction was sheer panic: ‘Oh my God!! Trisha is ALONE in my city!!!!’ Through a comedy of errors of when and how to meet, communicated entirely by email as he and I strove to log-in multiple times that day to check each other’s replies, we finally met at 6pm at the correct McDonald’s.

It was pure joy. We were thrilled to see each other again. We were jumping up and down Avenida Florida as we gushed about what we had been doing the past months after we separated in Moscow. We talked about our trip together in China, Mongolia and the Trans-Mongolian Railway. “Remember this…. Remember that….” It was fantastic to be reunited again. Magic! And thoroughly unexpectedly soon too for I had not intended to come to Buenos Aires until perhaps next March.

We walked up and down Avenida Florida, the main pedestrian mall in the centre of Buenos Aires, thoroughly distracted as we talked non-stop for five hours or so.

Like Jane when I was in Ireland, he felt extremely responsible for my safety and comfort. I felt as if I was a baby. He feared that the Buenos Aires traffic would crash into me, he feared that I would crash into the Buenos Aires lamp-posts and telephone booths and loaded me with warnings and be-carefuls here and there. “Gee Pablo, thank you for being so sweet and nice but I crossed the horrid China-Mongolian border by myself and didn’t die, remember??”

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 31 October, 2002

Pablo and I met in Cafe Tortoni after his work and I was introduced to the very famous and charmingly old cafe in Buenos Aires.

The bar/cafe culture was a quintessential aspect of Buenos Aires (BA). All over BA were these traditional bars-cum-cafes which were usually located at the corners of streets. While many had closed, the few which remained were, to me, thoroughly charming. They had high ceilings, ancient iron-fans, antique lamp-shades shaped like flowers, black-and-white checkered floors and wooden tables and chairs.

For individuals, they were great places to sit and while away the time as one reads or ponders over various questions of life. For friends, they were excellent places to talk, discuss, reminisce, laugh, share, grow.

They were nostalgic and inspirational. And for many years, poets, writers, political revolutionists, tango composers, the intellects of BA, had pined for love, debated over ideas, grieved over disillusions, hoped for a new way of life, drowned their sorrows, praised their good fortune, recollected their pasts, etc… and in turn, churned out the tremendously excellent culture of BA. The poetry, the literature, the music, the tango dance of Argentina.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 1 November, 2002
As I learn about the Argentinian way of life, allow me to introduce to the readers: Mate and Dulce de Leche.

Mate (pronouced Ma-tey) is the typical drink of the Argentinians. It is served in special cups made from round gourds or a vase-shaped vessel.

The mate leaves are not just a couple of wimpy leaves swimming at the bottom of the cups. The leaves and sometimes stems are crushed up really small and filled to the brim of the cups. To drink it, one needed a bamboo or usually a metal straw with tiny holes at the bottom to filter out the tiny leaves.

One could only pour enough water into the cup for one suck. The water, and this is very important as imparted gravely by Pablo, must be about 80�C or so. Never boiled to 100�C. It’s all alchemy and it is strong stuff.

So, all over BA, one could see the locals holding their mate cups in one hand and a flask of hot-water in the other, refilling, sipping, refilling, sipping…

Dulce de leche (Dool-say dey ley-chey) is heaven. Yes, it is. I cannot explain what goes inside it for Pablo was unable or perhaps unwilling to part with this secret knowledge. It seemed to be a cross between chocolate cream and caramel. It is brown, sticky and gorgeously sweet. Every other pastries and desserts, magnificently and lovingly prepared by the wondrous chefs of Argentina, had fillings of dulce de leche. Cartons of dulce de leche are sold everywhere and people had been known, for example Pablo, to finish up a carton of dulce de leche in one day. I had grown to love it too. There was always a carton ever-ready in our refrigerator.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 2 November, 2002
I had passed by many banks which were either shuttered up entirely or which had a small door furtively left open for their employees to enter. Harsh graffiti messages like ‘CHORROS!!’ (Thieves!) were spray painted on the walls and shutters.

Today, we spotted some people cleaning the wall of yet another disfigured bank.

When Pablo left his country in December last year, Argentina was going through a major economic crisis. When he returned eight months later, he returned to a country totally unrecognisable to him. The Argentinian peso had been devalued from US$1 = 1 Argentinian peso to US$1 = 3.5 Argentinian peso now, ‘mas o menos’. So, imagine the mentality of the people… what they earn now appeared to be 3.5 times LESS than before. 100 Argentinian pesos was US$28.50, no longer US$100.

And I am sure the readers know that the Argentinian people who had savings in banks had had all their money robbed. Their money gone. Disappeared. The middle-class basically went bankrupt, in a sense.

I tried to imagine how it would be like if the bank where my rapidly-depleting life-savings are stored now, suddenly announced that they have my money now and sorry, you have nothing anymore. I tried to imagine how it would be like to be in my 50s, to have worked my entire life, saving up my money for a nice retirement and then, to receive this piece of news. I could not imagine it. People would go mad, some could kill themselves and I am sure, a few had.

I do not claim to understand ‘Economics’ very well. I mean, amongst my er… ahem, considerably wide knowledge, my weaker subjects were ‘Neuro Brain Surgery’, ‘Myths and Practices of Ancient Mesopotamia and Sumerian cuneiform decipherment’ and sadly, ‘Economics’.

But I looked at BA now with a tinge of sadness. I saw beggars on the streets, people going through every coin-drop of the telephones to see if there were any change, families pushing shopping carts and collecting and sorting out cardboard boxes, old men or women sleeping on the streets.

Along Avenida Florida, a new phenomenon even for Pablo, people lining up wares, crafts, clothes, mate-cups, souvenirs, kitsch Spiderman costumes, etc… in the middle of the pedestrian mall. All to earn just that little more cash.

On the other hand, the posh shops, boutiques and cafes remained in the background. After all, (I believe) BA had been the most expensive city to live in here in South America. The mighty rich who have savings in US dollars are 3.5 times richer now, if you think about it. They were still shopping in Emporio Armani and attending performances at Teatre Colon.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 3 November, 2002

Being a Sunday today and being Italians, Pablo took me to his parents’ apartment for a wonderful pasta lunch (and some nagging on his side). While I did not always understand what was being said among them, through Pablo’s dad, I really found myself admiring the resilience of the Argentinians in such a sore period of the economic crisis. He had said he had lost everything but poof, what was he to do, he had to stay happy and ‘life goes on’.

Indeed, I had been thoroughly impressed with the general good nature of the locals here (not those getting ready for another protest on the street, of course). They were civil, polite, friendly, and very sweet. They would bounce “Hola” off one another everywhere. The men almost always let ladies get on buses first. If they bumped into one another, a profusion of apologies emerged. Very sweet.

I had come across a few street performances of tango by now. The couple whom I thoroughly loved watching would usually be found at the intersection of Avenida Florida and Calle Lavalle in the centre of BA.

Tango is sensual, beautiful, fluid. The music always nostalgic, always romantic. The dancers are the key-stone to my enjoyment of the art. The couple I love were so perfect together. The lady appeared to be feather-light as she was lifted, pulled (as she leaned towards the man until her body was like at an angle of 40 degrees) and twirled around seemingly effortlessly by the man. The kicks between each other’s legs are swift and exact, in other words, no… they never tripped over each other. Their movements synchronised. The mood, sometimes serious, sometimes playful, always enchanting.

I always stayed for a while whenever I passed by them. I always had a huge smile on my face as I watched, with excitement, as they expressed themselves so beautifully and passionately. I always willingly forked out money for them. Bravo.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 4 November, 2002
I had decided to stay on in Buenos Aires to study Spanish.

I had wanted to do this in Bolivia before I embarked on the rest of my trip around South America. But since I could not go to Bolivia, I had headed south to Argentina and to be very frank, after the ‘high’ of the Iguacu Falls, I felt a little drained now. I know the rest of Patagonia would be even more amazing, so I decided I needed a breather now before I popped a vessel with too many overwhelming experiences.

After travelling for six months, I also felt a need to stay longer in a place to get to know the city better, instead of packing up every three days or so. And these few days had been great, I had grown to love BA. Hence, I signed up for a Spanish course and would be here until Christmas.

I had contacted my other BA friend – Francisca, whom I met in my Pantanal trip. She could not believe her ears when she learnt that I was here in BA and would be staying for two months. She was squealing with delight. We arranged to meet at the McDonald’s at the Obelisk at 5:30pm this evening.

I waited for her at a McDonald’s, facing the Obelisk, for half an hour. I got suspicious and decided to pop my head out and see if there was another McDonald’s near the Obelisk. In the city with the most number of McDonald’s per square metre, sure, why not? Not more than 100 metres away, I spotted a strangely familiar yellow curve of an arch! Argh!!! I quickly hurried over and waited.

An old man came over and asked if I was Trisha. He took me over to the side of the road and there was Francisca, waiting in the car. She had been driving round and round for half an hour as she could not stop on this road. She drove so many times the old man standing at the road recognised her and so she enlisted his help to look for me.

We exchanged the typical Argentinian kissie-on-the-right-cheek. As she pulled away into the traffic, cars blared their horns at her and drivers shook their fists. She screamed and wailed, “Too many cars!!! I hate coming to the centre!! Oh, where do I go? I don’t know the centre!! AHHH!!! Sorry…. sorry… Where to go?” Great to be united with ‘la chica loca’.

As I feared for my life, I suggested that we should keep quiet while she concentrated on her driving but she would have none of it and chatted away, bombarding me with questions and enriching my knowledge with her life story. More cars whizzed by narrowly. More taxi-drivers cursed us.

Our conversation was peppered with, “Oh!!! What street was that?? What street?? Did you see???? Oh…. I want to go there… I want to turn there… Now, I cannot turn…” She was looking for Shamrocks, an Irish pub. She said she was craving for their bruschettas. But she had no idea where it was.

We spun around in circles, she made left turn when she was on the right side of the street, she stopped suddenly to ask for directions, her engine stalled at traffic lights… When we found the pub, we spun around some more to look for FREE parking. In total, we drove for more than two hours. And I was amazed we were still alive at the end of the drive. I offered to pay for parking so as to get out of the car some time this century.

The biggest joke must be that Shamrocks did not serve bruschettas anymore. Ha. It was so fun to catch up with her.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 5-8 November, 2002
I spent the days either going for my Spanish classes, doing my homework or wandering around the streets of BA.

I had really grown to love the hustle and bustle of BA. The city seemed to have a little of everything.

The fine architecture of most older buildings in the centre of the European-type buildings reminded me a little of the splendour of St. Petersburg in Russia. Very pretty were the cupolas found at the top of some corner blocks.

The busy avenues, the wares sold on the streets, the energy level here, reminded me a little of Mexico City in Mexico.

The charming cafes, posh bookshops, theatres reminded me a little of London in United Kingdom, lending a very intellectual feel to the city. I loved book-stores and frequently popped into them. Oh, I wished I knew Spanish well enough to devour the huge range of books. Sadly, I could only head towards the English section, if any, and browsed through what they had to offer.

I really love it here. All sort of shops are found at every other block. There were kiosks selling snacks and drinks, ‘Locutorio’ which offered telephone cabins and computers for internet use, stationery shops, laundries, clothing stores, garages, butcheries, pastry shops, grocery stores, hair-dressers, video-rentals, supermarkets, photo studios, everything was available. And what was best about the city was that at night, even as late as 11pm, many restaurants and cafes stayed open. You never needed to go far to get something you want. And to us tourists, things now are cheap. For example, a bife, and not just any bife: a thick, juicy slap of delicious beef steak, costs a little more than US$1 to US$3.

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA – 9-10 November, 2002
Hung out with Francisca over the weekend, meeting her friend, her friend’s mom and then, her family. I had never been hugged so hard in my life, thanks to Francisca’s grandmother. Gosh, Argentinians are simply so passionate and wonderful. I felt great to have made the decision to stay longer here in BA.

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