Friday, 18 January 2019
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Walking through Recoleta suburb of Buenos Aires reminds of Paris or Berlin. The quiet leafy residential streets lead towards Recoleta Cemetery. For avid readers of this blog, you will recall I visited Punta Arenas’ cemetery a few weeks ago. That was nothing compared to Recoleta. A large entrance announces that this is where they rest in peace. And they rest in peace in some style. There are hundreds, if not a few thousand, family mausoleums located here. Most are about 5m tall, very ornate structures. Apart from the architectural delights, a primary reason why there are bus loads of tourists is that one small family mausoleum, the Duarte family, has the remains of Eva Peron.
Evita.
You just need to follow the tourists to find it. Its black marble walls are adorned with anniversary plaques celebrating the life of Evita, who died of cancer in 1952. She being the First Lady of Argentina. Married to Juan Peron, President of Argentina in the 1940s and 1950s. And again briefly in the 1970s. The ornate brass doors covered in flowers.
Around the corner are two workmen seemingly refurbishing one of the mausoleums. The floor plate has been removed to reveal a shaft 8m deep, with spaces for coffins either side. It can hold fourteen coffins. A small narrow staircase leads the way down. Workman says this is unusual as the mausoleums are normally 4m deep. I’m conversing in basic English with an Argentinian labourer. Can you imagine an Argentinian trying to converse in basic Spanish with a British labourer?
Thought not.
The grey rain clouds have now disappeared to reveal a deep blue sky as I walk along to the Museum of Modern Art. Having been to New York’s Museum of Modern Art, I’m expecting great things. Sadly, not a patch on MOMA. Comprises one level of modern art plus a level dedicated to the art of Pablo Suarez. A speciality seems to be naked men and women. Weird. Very weird. Don’t do art. I’m more science and engineering.
Torrential rain shower as I approach the city so pop into Retiro Railway Station. Vast ticket hall and an even bigger engine hall, the likes of which you would see in St Pancras or Cologne railway station. Across the road is the English Tower, built by the British as a gift to the Argentinians in the 1910s. Not called the English Tower since the Falklands. Now the Monumental Tower.
The Falklands War Memorial is across the road. I last came here in 1999 and it’s not as I remember it. Don’t remember there being a fence around it and had a feeling there was an eternal flame on the ground. Back then, a local was a bit miffed that we were English and had shown our faces. Back then, I recall it being quite busy. Now, there’s no one about and it just appears a little bit forgotten about.
As it’s raining, jump in taxi to Casa Rosada, the Pink Palace. Government House. Built in the 19th century. Taxi driver buys some nuts from a street seller and starts munching. Arriving at Casa Rosada, I ask how much and get a few bits of nuts in my direction as he tells me the fare. Nice.
Small museum at the back charts the progress of the Republic of Argentina. Surprisingly small section on Juan Peron and Evita. Displays show television pictures of the 1970s onwards. The military junta came to power in 1976 following a coup and General Galtieri came to power himself following a coup in December 1981. However, by March 1982 his popularity was low and at the end of March 1982, the newsreel shows locals rioting and protesting on the streets against President Galtieri. Four days later, to alleviate his domestic woes, on 2 April 1982, Galtieri invaded the Falklands. The newsreels show locals celebrating his dictatorship in the streets. What a difference a few days makes.
Walk along Florida, the main pedestrianised shopping street. Every 10m, there are locals shouting “Cambio, cambio” (Exchange) but there seems to be an excess of supply over demand. No one seems to be taking them up on their offer. Pass one shop that sells…wait for it…remote controls. Yep. Nothing but remote controls.
Dinner at El Cuartito. Bit of a Buenos Aires institution. A famous pizzeria. Could almost be in New York City. It’s that sort of place. The walls are lined with signed photos of famous South American sports stars. Not that I know who they are.
Have a ferry to catch to Uruguay tomorrow.
Except.
Can’t find the ferry ticket.
Guess which muppet put ferry ticket (and a train ticket for Ecuador) in with all the bumpf he’s just packaged up and sent to the UK by DHL yesterday.
Yep. This muppet.
