Day 209: Buenos Aires (25/08/2011)

We landed in Buenos Aires at 8.30am after a surprisingly easily 13 hour flight across the southern Atlantic.

As the aircraft crossed the coast we banked heavily, the capitals of Uruguay and Argentina unfolded beneath us; or at least part of them did. The River Plate that divides them was visible but the cities were cloaked in thick mist.

Closer to the river, the mist was a thin ground cover but as we flew the short distance inland it thickened and enveloped everything but the tops of skyscrapers. The top floors poked through the duvet spread over the landscape in the distance like cake decorations on icing.

We had cut through a perfectly smooth and uniform layer of cloud as our descent had begun, leaving the clear air and brilliant sunrise behind us. We were now sandwiched between low cloud above and ground fog beneath and the effect was disorientating and offered no sense of the altitude. Only our popping ears gave away the rate of descent and so thick was the fog that the bump on landing came entirely unexpectedly. Everyone gasped with surprise in the fraction of a second before mobile phones were pinging into life and impatient passengers were unclipping their seat belts and wrenching luggage from the overhead locker while the aircraft still hurtled along the runway at the velocity of a Ferrari at breaking point.

The air brakes screamed as the human cargo clapped and cheered the pilot’s safe landing in a way that only certain nationalities do. The outburst of relief was palpable as the jet taxied off the runway, still travelling at an alarming speed and I started to feel that the celebrations were a little premature as the gate whistled past and the crawl to the docking tube failed to materialise. Eventually, with 350 eager passengers already jostling in the aisles, the aircraft came to an excessively abrupt halt, the doors opened and the contents of the plane disgorged itself into passport control.

There are certain incongruities that stick in the mind. One is the sight of deeply tanned Madridillos tottering off a plane in strappy clothes and holiday heels, to be confronted with a weather system that only the southern hemisphere in winter can muster. Madrid was a balmy 40 degrees; Buenos Aires took that figure, snorted derisively and lopped off the zero before handing it back to the now shivering sun worshippers. With it came the bonus of a cold wind that whipped away whatever heat that the tan was struggling to cling onto.

Safely through passport control and customs, we boarded the bus to Central and relaxed in a level of comfort that brought sensation back to our numb buttocks.

Argentina has had a tumultuous ride and the names of streets are evidence of this. Whether it is 9^th July, 25^th May, or 27^th April, each great paroxysm of national pride is celebrated with a town planner’s wet dream.

Overthrown an oppressive colonial power recently? Why not name a street after the date.

Removed a troublesome military Junta by massive street demonstrations? The square round the corner needed a make-over anyway. Why not demote the incumbent nomenclature in favour of a recently significant date.

The dilemma comes when there is a clash between the aspirations of public revolt and the notoriously fickle nature of Argentinian politics. In the early 1980’s General Gautieri plunged the nation into bankruptcy by a combination of cack handed economic policy and corrupt military hand-outs. Three million thronged the streets of Buenos Aires in protest calling for his removal. The next day he invaded Las Malvenas (The Falklands to you and I) and the same three million took to the same streets lauding his bold foreign policy adventure.

Gauteri’s murderous junta were swept away shortly after the debacle was concluded but now days the streets struggle to reconcile the joy at removal of a tyrant who many loved for his firm hand, whilst honouring the dead of his ruthlessly populist last hurrah. The result is a war memorial in every town and a national schizophrenia concerning his status as hero or villain.

Circling the tributaries of Avenue De 9^th July, we eventually found Hotel Splendid and checked in by mid-morning. Team Dragoman arrived in dribs and drabs throughout the day and we met Sharif and Sophie in the death plunge lift, Bert and Vanessa milling around the 4^th floor corridors and the other 15 at the 6 o’clock meeting in the second floor salon. After a round of introductions reminiscent of a corporate team building day, I decided that it may have been unwise to introduce myself as a fleeing bank robber, freshly sprung from prison when Ann was fingering 911 on her mobile phone and Dave, the expedition leader quietly put his head in his hands.

My attempt at ice-breaking humour turned sourer still as Leon revealed his drugging and robbery experience, Alex reported the theft of his wallet and two others described the loss of their mobile-phones in daylight smash and grabs on the streets near the hotel. Lonely Planet lauds BA as the safest city in South America yet nearly a quarter of us had been robbed in the first 24 hours.

What had we done!

There were two silver linings. Leon had a good description of the attacker who was a repeat offender with an established Modus Operandi. Carolyn had used her police training to collar one felon with a cuff to the goolies as he hurried by. She sat on him until the local fuzz sauntered to the scene, demanding tourist dollars before commencing enquiries.

We all contemplated these security scares at length over several bottles of Quilmes during the pre-match drinks do, and having taken the salutary lesson to heart, got merrily pissed before implementing a rigorous personal security routine.

For starters, we fell into bed, half-cut and too drunk to bolt the door.

Or, in fact, to notice that it stood wide open all night as we brewed a good hangover for day one of our new adventure.