A very restless night. Buenos Aires has been a city that has cemented a feeling that metropolises the world over fall into two groupings. The first is of cities easily appreciated by the visitor, with many picturesque sights to visit, a charming and unusual character that leaves the tourist with a feeling that they have really enjoyed their time there. Often these are smaller towns, with pretty public areas, parks, maybe a coastline that can be walked, however they may also be sprawling urban areas. Rio De Janeiro is a fine example of this, or Venice, Montevideo, Edinburgh or Oporto. Smaller examples are often any sort of custom-made town intended for tourists, where the infrastructure is intended to make life simple for the short-term visitor. Public transport is rarely necessary, amenities are close at hand, and culture is often low-key or non-existent. This is unimportant as the short-term visitor tends to have a superficial relationship with the city anyway, with no need for frippery like theatre or art, especially if it would only be available in a language they cannot understand.
The second type of city is one in which the tourist is utterly superfluous in any way except as a source of further income to the city’s residents. Any apparent attraction the city has for the visitor is replaced within a few days with a gnawing sense of something being out of reach, something else is happening that the superficial tourist cannot know. No amount of walking beautiful, tree-lined boulevards can alleviate the sense that you are intruding upon a somewhat unwelcoming environment. Emulating the apparent habits of the local residents makes little difference; the more the visitor strives to copy their behaviour, to go to the places they go and order the same style of coffee they order, the more the tourist gives off an air of difference. These cities cannot satisfy the tourist in the same way as the first type; beyond an initial veil of historic buildings, large public parks, monuments, traditional restaurants, and daily amenities that the visitor expects, there is little there to enjoy. Gradually the tourist acknowledges that, whilst the city is surely beautiful and that they have enjoyed themselves, that it is time to move on, and privately feel no desire to return there.
This type of city is much more prevalent than the first, yet often these cities are perceived to be in the initial category too. The difference is that this second category are intended, almost in entirety, to be of use to the resident, or long-term visitor. The public transport network is set to move the maximum amount of citizens from home to business to shop and back with minimum fuss. The theatre program is a year-long presentation. The city is awash with information, and rarely can it be multi-lingual. Space is at a premium. Neighbourhoods rise and fall in importance, shops open and close, public buildings are renovated and museums move. Without a central resource, often a travel book or website, the short-term visitor can no nothing of this, beyond a superficial understanding. It is the resident who will have some deep, rhythmical understanding of how the city is fitted together.
These cities are like long, complicated pieces of classical music; many nuances remain elusive on first listen, and it takes a long time and repeated plays to understand the interaction between the instruments, why a trumpet here or a swell in strings there. The pulse of the city is utterly unfathomable to the tourist, but so natural to the resident. The opening hours of supermarkets, government offices, restaurants, outside of the tourist area are set for local demands and needs. The tourist feels that he is neglected, even unwanted, and forms no strong and favourable bond with the city, leaving chastised, and yearning for a more simplistic experience in his next stop.
So far we have been in many cities like this. In Brazil, Sao Paulo is notable, although Belo Horizonte was the same (and very much devoid of any tourist attractions whatsoever). In Paraguay, Asuncion is a beautiful and fading city (though in the process of restoration) that feels like it harbours a million secrets. The bus network is unfathomable for the visitor and perceived tourist sights are elusive. Montevideo enjoys an attractive coastal walk, an old town, and a walkable centro that allows the visitor to leave feeling happy, yet the city is also discreet and never feels like it opens up fully to the tourist.
Buenos Aires also falls into this category. Perhaps any city of this size, or over a certain size, must become like this, although it is debatable whether New York City is of type one or two, or some sort of hybrid. However, the Argentine Capital can be exhausted by the tourist within a couple of days. A city of 13 million people, it sprawls far inland, the ‘tourist’ area comprising the neighbourhoods of San Telmo, Centro, Monserrat, Palermo, Recoleta and arguably Retiro making up merely 15% of the city (although within those areas it is easy to stray from notable tourist attraction to ghetto in a street or two; the location of inner city poverty rarely has any correlation with the existence of tourism, except at the key sights of shopping streets or public buildings, where beggars and shady characters always lurk).
Whilst Buenos Aires is most frequently compared to Paris, this is simply in superficial terms of the look and feel of the city. It certainly appears to resemble the French capital, with broad avenues, no road markings, and a fine selection of restaurants, cafes, independent retailers, pock-marked by the occasional McDonald’s doing its best not to intrude too much. The colour scheme also matches, with the washed out black-grey-white of Paris imitated here to perfection. Both cities are shorn of unnecessary colour, and whilst in Europe that is less unusual, in Latin America most cities are bright, bold and unafraid to make colourful statements, and Buenos Aires comes across as a little stuffy and snooty because of it.
A more appropriate comparison would be between Buenos Aires and London. Two enormous urban sprawls that admittedly offer something to the tourist, but nothing in comparison to what is offered to their residents. Cultural life is widespread and varied, transport links cater towards those earning their daily bread in the capital, and as the giant social ship steers first in one direction, then another, urbanites can keep track of such vagaries through the endless of stream of information that is generated just for them. Few are rich, fiscally, although there are many who are. For those who are not, there is just as much for them to enjoy.
It makes selecting destinations difficult for us, knowing that we often have to go somewhere simply because it is the only place you can catch an onward bus from. You want to see the big sights and the big cities, and it can be disappointing to realise they cannot be penetrated in any meaningful way during your visit (this is in no way a comment on the character of the people, who have yet to be anything less than gracious hosts everywhere we have travelled). Speaking the language helps, but more than that is the need to accept the shallow relations you will have with your host city, and if it turns out to be like the latter category, then instead turn your eye towards it as a destination for a longer stay. Quite simply, would I like to live here?
Breakfast is fine, coffee is fine, and we are packed and ready to leave to catch a bus to Mar Del Plata. Sarah has a wad of cash to collect first from the same supermarket I visited previously, at the outrageous exchange rate of $19.50 to £1, up from $17.80. The Argentine government have changed the laws allowing citizens to legally buy up to $2000 dollars a month for savings, and the dolarblue value has dropped away again to just of $17 to the £1. Sarah complains about her bad luck, but she is almost £100 richer thanks to her good timing. We now divide prices by 20, and they are a little more expensive than that. The government seem happy to let the peso slide to its correct value against the dollar, but its unclear as to whether that will solve problems with inflation or not.
Taxi to the supermarket. Jump out, no queue at the booth, and Sarah gets her cash. Out the door, into another taxi, and up to Retiro bus terminal. The journey costs about £2. Taxis in BA are a bargain, no excuses no to use them. Out we get, tipping the man who lifts our bags from the boot. This is a typical occurrence now, from buses to taxis, and I am not entirely clear how much I should be tipping. I need to pay more attention when I see someone else do it. I hand over a $5 note, worth about 25p. Neither of us seem upset nor overjoyed about it.
Into the terminal and up to the desk. “Two tickets to Mar Del Plata please” I ask. “Your passports, please” asks the white girl with dreadlocks behind the counter. “You have my passport, don’t you?” says Sarah “I gave it to you in the supermarket”. “No you didn’t” I reply. In our bluster to hide Sarah’s small fortune we forgot to get her passport back from the money-changer. Nothing to do but leave the terminal, take a taxi back down to Plaza Once, she dashes in and reappears passport in hand, and return to the terminal. All in all, it takes about 40 minutes there and back, and costs us $100. The taxis really are superb.
No problems this time, tickets booked and we pass our time eating a couple of pancho supers, ubiquitous hot-dogs available everywhere, served with ketchup, mustard and chip-sticks. At $13 a time you cant really complain, so we have two each, washed down with the familiar Quilmes. Tasty after our mini adventure. I also pick up a fine Boca Juniors polo shirt from a little store, royal blue and yellow, which you will see a lot of in the next few weeks. The woman in the kiosk was unhappy that I wanted the one in the window, the only one left in the entire store, didn't I want one in sky blue instead?, and she figured she ripped me off charging me $200 for it. For me, however, it was dead simple; I wanted it, it cost me a tenner mas o menos, and I so rarely see anything I really like that I wasn’t bothered on the cost. We all win.
We get a rare treat getting on our bus, free snacks in a little cardboard tube with pictures of slutty models on the outside. Sarah does a mum and hopes they aren’t on our bus. We have somehow bought ourselves fancy seats on this bus too; for a change we are travelling ejecutivo, which are the wide downstairs seats which fully recline and offer incredible legroom. Normally we travel semi-cama (half-recline) or cama (fully recline, but upstairs and without the legroom). I think we can justify the extra quid these seats have cost us.
The bus journey was utterly uninteresting, although I finished reading the second Foundation book, and moved on to The Wizard Of Oz. The Pampas occupy vast sections of central Argentina, and they are utterly flat and utterly bland. Thousands of square miles of farmland that you cannot see from the road thanks to the curvature of the Earth.
Five and a half hours later we roll into the enormous city-resort of Mar Del Plata. The bus terminal is like a small airport, vast empty spaces made to accommodate people who just aren’t here at 9pm at night. Sarah, who is in charge of booking accommodation and planning for the Argentina leg of the trip, points us in the direction of the taxi rank. Buses in MDP do not take cash, using only a rechargeable card, and you cannot buy a card on the bus. Fortunately, taxis are as cheap here as BA, and our driver drops us at the door to Hostel Quercas minutes later.
The hostel is full of kids, all here for the weekend to sun themselves on the beaches and go to clubs at 3am. They are noisy, messy, thoroughly inconsiderate, whilst we are tired, hungry, and a bit minging. Norman, our host with the most, comes to our rescue, looking like a skinny Seth Rogan. The hostel is overbooked due to a crash on hostelbookers.com , and Sarah will have to stay in a 6 bed room for one night. On the other hand, she isn’t being charged for it. WIN. Not only that but we can phone for a delivery of beer and food. ANOTHER WIN. One hour later, Sarah has a bucket of Spaghetti Bolognese in her hand and some Palermo beer, another acceptable lager, whilst I enjoy a selection of delicious empanadas, including an especially good tomato, basil and mozzarella filled one. We even manage to catch El Superclasico on tv, a pre-season cup friendly thing between Boca Juniors and River Plate. Boca are poor, very poor, and River dominate. Almost everyone in the hostel watches the game until the outcome is certain (about 40 minutes into the first half). Sarah is again wowed by the power of football. Eventually the world winds down and we head to bed.
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