The big black bag that I call mine was bundled into the passenger seat of the Renault Clio sedan by a friendly young chap who was living proof that the 'mohawk' hairdo is still alive in South America. I bundled myself into the back seat before he ofered to do so for me. Another slicked mohawk...
"No hablo Ingles?" I asked the mohawk.
"Ah! Ingles! Si!...No! Ahhh... David Beckham! "
Well this was going to be an interesting conversation! The mohawk cheerfully chatters away in the front seat that is cutting the blood circulation from my legs. The engine strains to pull the car up to speed for the motorway as we head towards Buenos Aires, but it does not matter... the cars are so small here! All around us on the road are booted versions of European superminis from Peugeot, Citroen, Renault, Ford et al. The early indication is that the rumours are true and Argentina is still fighting to strengthen its economy since its collapse a few years back. We overtake a battered old 1960s truck with strips of old tyre fitted onto its bumpers and wooden crates full of succulent fruits piled high onto its flat-bed, thick oily smoke belching out of the exhaust.
The horns blast in chaiotic symphony on the other side of the road as we pull away from a toll gate. Mohawk laughs, points his finger to his temple and circles it, chuckles....
"Argentina locos!!"
... the message is clear... the horny honkers are crazy... and Argentinian´s clearly have a good sense of humour!
Green fields give way to the shabby concrete balconies of ugly towerblocks, the usual oddities from everyday life cluttering each and every one, a sight that is reminiscent of any European mainland city. Crumbling two, three, four-storey buildings are packed against each other on either side of the concrete overpass and into the distance all around there is nothing to see but bleak urban sprawl. The further into the city we drive, the more concrete obscenities there seem to be.
The cheeky little car swings down a grey concrete ramp of the motorway onto Avenue 9 de Julio which appears to be the main wide North/South thoroughfare through Buenos Aires, and we are bumper to bumper with other portenos who have somewhere and nowhere to go. I am feeling confused by the whole sight... I am in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and yet here I am amongst all sorts of European cars, many designs so old that you would struggle to notice any on the roads of the European continent. From first appearances the architecture, old and new(er), looks to have been pulled straight from France, Spain and Italy by the settlers and their descendants. I came all this way to be in Europe?
Horns honk and bumpers grind... no this is not a Canye West or Beyonce video... and we pull free from the grubby gridlock. The rattle from my teeth indicates that the taxis suspension needs a check, and that we are rumbling down a cobblestone street. A peek through the windscreen confirms this. The grey 19th Century walls rise up on either side of us, occasional weeds breaking through the ragged pavement and old brickwork is visible where the rendering has given up the task of bonding. A corner is currently the home for a pile of garbage, posters and soggy notices forming a papier-mache coat for the old lampost that rises out at a slight angle from the ragged detritous. A bag moves, a head pops up from it and then it walks around to another spot... the scavenger continues to rummage for unwanted delights!
The taxi rattles past sorry handsome old facades, all decayed, some collapsed and most with large weeds growing out over the once impressive carved stone roof mantles. Shutters sometimes hang broken and open over damp black interiors, or access is prohibited by padlocked metal gates. Colourful graffitti characters inject a sudden burst of colour between a corner grocery store and an antiques shop. A tango scene is depicted on a small wall mural where two elderly ladies stand to chatter enthusiastically. A handsome bistro spills tables onto the pavement where a young couple walk past arm in arm. A hint of hope amongst the decay. The cab stops and I fall out.
Welcome to old San Telmo... the home of the Tango!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment