Living history to the rhythm of the tango
The mothers of the Plaza de Mayo still demonstrate
regularly in the square of that name before the Presidential Palace (Casa
Rosada) demanding to know what happened to their "disappeared"
young. It is a reminder that Buenos Aires, however civilised and cosmopolitan
it seems, has a dark and unhappy recent past.
 The
palace was off-limits during the military dictatorship of 1976-83, but
now it boasts a museum open to the public. It is the focal point of the
Plaza de Mayo. Opposite are the arches of the Cabildo (town hall) which
has also become a museum. On the square's other side is the Metropolitan
Cathedral. They are just a few of the fine buildings that give Buenos Aires
its belle epoque image.
It is a city to discover by walking; the wide boulevards have pavements
designed for agile pedestrians and are not clogged by determined crowds
or patrolled by pestering beggars and hawkers. I walked with a guide slung
round my neck. This was a rented tape recorder with a cassette describing
all the sights.
The district called Monserrat is where the city started. There, 400
years ago, the pampa grass waved in the fresh breezes off the Rio de la
Plata, blowing as they do now, and Indians dwelled under the shadeless
sun. It was there that Don Juan de Garay drove in a stake and founded Santa
Maria de los Buenos Aires ("Good Air").
In the carnivals of the 18th century, the blacks then inhabiting Monserrat
beat their drums to the rhythm of the "candombe". Music like
theirs played on the tape as I walked the district where the invading English
were defeated in 1807. Statues of heroes stand at street corners.
The tape, as I paused outside the Presidential Palace and gazed up at
its famous balcony, played extracts of speeches by Juan and Evita Peron.
It was history come alive. Then the voice of Carlos Gardel, the songbird
of Buenos Aires, flirting with the lyrics of a riotous tango, added soul
to the city tour.
The tango is to Buenos Aires what the waltz is to Vienna. Distorted
by modern dance troupes to a performance where a female dancer in a tight,
slit skirt, finishes with her fishnet-covered knee high up between her
partner's legs, it was originally danced only by men.
The raucous rhythms and vulgar lyrics with which the tango began in
1880 in working class areas of Buenos Aires, are reproduced in many night
clubs. The one with the most authentic dances, where the hour-long show
traces the history of tango, is called El Querandi. The Querandi Indians
were the original inhabitants of the plains (the pampa).
A pianist pounds the life out of the bass keys of an upright piano,
an accordionist races to finish first while a wise old violinist echoes
the soulful tones of a baritone singing grandfather. His period suit is
complete with an antique watch chain across its waistcoat. The club's display
of the development of the tango from its origins to the slick dance of
today, ranges from the time it was danced by a trio of men locked in close
embrace, to the sensuous dance of rival couples in dance competitions in
the 1920s.
 The
tango is everywhere in Buenos Aires. A couple I met in a hotel lift gave
me their card. It read: "Cristiany Virginia; tango danza" and
carried their photo in a tango stance. In the district of brightly painted
houses and open air art galleries known as the Caminito, cardboard cut
outs of tango dancers are used as background for tourists to pose for photographs.
Politics, and talking about the world's problems, are major pastimes
for the people of Buenos Aires. The favourite place to engage in conversation
with friends and strangers is a cafe. These are an essential part of city
life, serving black coffee (cortado), drinks and snacks throughout the
day.
The most famous is the Cafe Tortoni, founded in 1858, and which has
occupied its present site in the Avenue de Mayo for 106 years. It is the
oldest in Argentina. With pillars painted chocolate brown, dark wooden
walls hung with Victorian mirrors, art deco glass ceilings and shuffling
waiters complete with long aprons, black waistcoats and long sleeved white
shirts, it has an atmosphere of grander days.
Its dozens of round, marble-topped tables are always packed, not just
with tourists but also by teenagers listening to retired or aspiring politicians.
A menu specialty is a huge chrome platter with a dozen compartments set
in it. These are filled with chunks of smoked meat, sausage, cheese, olives,
and a few crackers.
It's a fitting snack before returning to the streets to gaze at more
colonial edifices, or to look for a partner to dance a passionate tango.
The city, like its currency now on a par with the US dollar, has recovered
from its traumatic past.
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