Buenos Aires
Added on Friday, September 26th, 2008 by Carole Nash Editor
Buenos Aires
“Time is My Greatest Enemy” - Evita Perón
Buenos Aires is one of the most charming cities in the world. Named Fair Winds by Pedro de Mendoza in honour of the Virgin of Santa Maria del Buen Aire, the Virgin of Candlemas, protector of sailors and seafarers as faraway as Seville and Cadiz, this federalised city has the feel of a great city.
I walk along the glamour of Recoleta, past gallerias and bookshops. Streets of small shops with the flavour of what they sell drift onto the sidewalk. Each shop takes on the character of what it sells. Tobacconists are full of sweet aromas and chocolate shops announce themselves with the scent of cocoa. Bon bons gift wrapped in ribbon sit on glass shelves saying ‘buy me’ in a squeaky voice. Antique shops stand austerely. Across the way headstones can be seen peeking over the cemetery wall made famous as the resting place of Maria Eva Duarte de Perón - Evita. The same woman who as the wife of Juan Domingo Perón, a charismatic military man of modest origins, once said with a fierce brand of nationalism and cult of the leader, that ‘shadows cannot see themselves in the mirror of the sun’.
In Recoleta, the necropolis features great monuments of dirty white marble and stained granite, guarded by a cosmos of stone angels and statues of the Virgin Mary. Evita’s vault is one of polished black granite marked only with a small plaque and laced at her gate with a pile of bouquets. Avenues of cypress and yew trees absorb the sounds of the city and it is quiet and peaceful and yes, there are the shadows and there is the sun.
One of the big projects of the journey continues to be the transportation of the motorbike. The process is the same at every airport but how it’s done is different each time. Indian customs present a face full of smiles and nodding heads but behind the scenes big bribes smooth the process. Customs officials look resplendant in their crisply pressed white uniforms, but the reality is that all of their hands are trapped in the till. The incomprehensibility of Thailand translates into a process that is actually efficient and friendly whereas Singapore presented the paperwork poorly, causing more delay. Here, as the bike waits for due process to be completed, ushered quickly I hoped through Argentine customs, it is beautiful to wander quietly without the sound of the engine rattling through my blood and bones.
In city centre barrios, the simplicity of the Rioplatense baroque style of architecture is evident through the works of Italian architects, unsurprisingly considering the massive and influential migration of workers from Italy in the 1920’s. Writing my notes off the Avenida de Mayo in the Café Tortoni, Buenos Aires most famous café, I am surrounded by pure elegance. Inspired by fin de siècle coffee houses, hardwoods of mahogany and oak, panel the walls and in the back, the humidor is empty except when I stand in front of the full length mirrors and imagine there is someone to talk to. The wood of the walls meet with the rich wallpaper embossed with gold and green and this joins the ceiling with corners of intricate architrave. The ceiling is held up by a line of deep red painted columns and in the corner by the clock, velvet curtains cover what could easily be a small stage. The way Buenos Aireans lounge in their chairs gives the impression they had all the time in the world. Inside the solidly wooden interiour, small marble topped tables were packed tightly. A father shared lunch with his daughter, someone read a paper whilst I had a coffee to the sound of a guitar being strummed.
I somehow feel so much more at home here than Australia. In making a comparison it’s easier to say what a place is not than what it is, but if Australia lacked a depth of sophisticated history, then Buenos Aires had it in heaps. It is this presence that this city didn’t seem to need to work at. This essential charm is the sign of a city made interesting by a revolution in thought and the way people were, without having to try.
I turn out of my lodgings on Viamonte and then left onto the wide expanse of 9 de Julio. There are seven lanes in each direction separated by a central reservation down which you can walk. It is a public holiday so the bike will remain in customs until the next day. After walking down three blocks I take the Avenida de Mayo and find the Café Tortoni. The glamorous entrance is like a small theatre door and a man in evening wear counts people in as people in their turn, leave.
On San Martin, Hotel Orly and Café Orleans give an impression of the Paris, Buenos Aires so aspires to be, yet as a city, she feels so more human. If Paris is a wedding cake, and Sydney an expensive muffin, then Buenos Aires is a pavlova, tough on the surface but succulent once you get to know her. There is nothing I dislike about this delicious city. She runs at a pace, which is never too fast, but quick enough to be interesting. By the Falklands War Memorial the Plaza San Martin is a verdant reminder of how cities with parks somehow seem more relaxed. Past the Palacio de San Martin and the glass Chancelleria on the corner, Arenales was lined with even more antique stores and art galleries, each corner engulfed with old fashioned cafes serving people who made time for lunch, sandwiches and tartas.
Black taxis with yellow tops - the same colour scheme as in Mumbai - circle constantly for fares. Men in suites walk hurriedly, those wearing rucksacks are more leisurely and old people gracefully link arms.
This expedition has been plagued with slow flight changes; 5 days Cape Town to Mumbai, 4 days Calcutta to Bangkok, 5 days Singapore to Perth and 5 days Sydney to Buenos Aires, totalling 19 days so far. Yet to go is Bogotá to Panama whilst the last flight home doesn’t count. The freighting is done with reasonable efficiency but the complication of adding security procedures to the vagaries of customs officials, missed flight schedules and public holidays, it is perhaps lucky I am here at all.
I am writing this book now, as the journey unfolds. By the time there is some conclusion in the United States of America, the manuscript must have its final reading, the design pinned down to please. I am tired. I sit in cafes and find I’m sitting upright in my chair and nod off. I work late, get up early and rush around on a motorcycle all day. I have ridden in high winds and monsoon, in tropical temperatures and pockets of air that could cook food.
The next day I call the freighters and they have found the bike. It will out within 24 hours so allowing me to journey north. There is too much snow in the very southern latitudes and the last time I was there I fell off and broke my ankle, only still to have to ride to Alaska. In Buenos Aires temperatures are 8 degrees and the wind is stiff and strong. I’ll have to buy a sweater.
Although the entry of the bike through customs was delayed because the Airway Bill document was addressed to the freight handler instead of myself, the people at the office in Avenida Peru on the junction with Belgrano are warm and kind. That afternoon the bike is released and later that night I meet Alina, a biker, a Tango dancer and a charming young woman who suggests we all meet up in her hometown of Carlos Paz near Cordoba. It is days ride north and there, she will introduce me to Erik Thompson, a man who has ridden a Jawa 350 extensively around South America. Erik had very little money and of course no on-the-road support, but he just went and is one of the most refreshing world bikers I have met. He is uncomplicated, gets the job done, is inspirational in his own way and capable of articulating his thoughts in a clear and concise way.
My new friends in Carlos Pas make me so welcome I do not want to leave. So used am I to my own solitary company, in a diluted kind of way it has become hard to understand what it is to lose something I don’t often have. Company, any chance to spend some time in one place is now so rare as not to exist. This journey, my life, is a succession of quick movements that obliterates any sense of social continuity. All I have is my bike. In this way, so often the desire to stay fights hard with the need to move. Staying is what gives a journey more completeness and in this way, moving is only made beautiful when there is also time to stay.
Sometime you have to let go to see if something is worth holding onto. Calm contemplative time is only part of the balance and surely has to partner the rumba of something quicker. Travelling can be compared to eating a good meal, well worth the effort to find, but all the better to rest and assimilate the food once it’s been eaten. Today I have indigestion. I have eaten too much travel; had my fill of moving, but still I move on.
Two days later, and while the sun was still high, I fall upon the small village of Tilcara and ride slowly up a narrow poorly paved street to park beside a café which has an air of familiarity. Gentle music drifts from a well-designed interiour with walls of colour and indigenous textures suggesting calmness. Down the street, school children, all dressed in crisply pressed white shirts and blouses, empty from their classrooms to make their way home. Over the way a small market square is full of traders selling hats and brightly coloured woven goods. Beside me an old man sits. We speak and he introduces himself as Rodolfo. He says he is a poet. Unable to sit I stand uncomfortable with this early finish to an otherwise productive day. The indigestion is in my head. Rodolfo suggests a place to stay and after a coffee I ride up this narrow street to the base of a mountainside burnt brown by the heat of a summer that occasionally extends into the fall.
