Just Another Day in Buenos Aires - travel writing retrospective part V

Written a little while ago (as evidenced by my mentioning "an undeveloped roll of film"):

Just Another Day in Buenos Aires

Anna Maria Espsäter revisits her love affair with Buenos Aires – one which continues despite the odd rough patch.

It was a small café off 9 de Julio – one of those ubiquitous Parisian-looking avenues that run like arteries right through the heart of Buenos Aires – that caught our lunch-longing eyes with its arrangement of quiches and flans in the window. After all, sightseeing can be such hard work without pit stops, and Argentina’s capital takes a marathon effort worthy of the odd refreshment.

The city, which translates as ‘Fair Winds’ in English, first stole my affections in the early ‘90s on a quick weekend trip, while I was living in Latin America. Now, over a decade later and shortly after the financial melt-down, the city had an eerie feel about it – banks boarded up, shops shut – but no amount of corrupt politicians or economic crisis could ruin this city’s charms. Locals, however, warn us that there are sinister goings-on and a creeping sense of lawlessness to Buenos Aires these days…  

Earlier in the day we had ambled and strolled our way along the streets, taking our time, discovering treasures other than Buenos Aires’ cafes: its broad boulevards, its port and artists’ quarter, La Boca, its horde of antique shops in San Telmo, and majestic, flurried displays of Tango performed on cobbled squares.

Outside our large, empty hotel – tourists were few and far between – near the famous Plaza de Mayo and Casa Rosada, we watch demonstrators gather to wave banners and fists at the government, just like in the by-gone days of Perón, giving you a sense that nothing much has changed. The hotel itself teleports guests back in time to the glamorous heyday of Evita herself: everything is moodily lit, with the rickety old lift dangling on a thin thread, swinging slowly between floors, music echoing around high-ceiling rooms and dim corridors.

Back at the café we settle down with a snack and the obligatory red wine, local of course. Well, actually from Mendoza, just over a thousand kilometres to the west where 80 per cent of the nation’s wine is produced. I suspect an equal proportion is consumed right here in Buenos Aires. With wonderfully cheap vino tinto, we opt for a bottle and settle in to watch the people of the city pass by, our café-idling camouflaging us amidst the locals.

At first I don’t notice anything peculiar as conversation twists and turns, rather like our recent journey across the Andes from Chile. Slowly, I become aware of an agitated teenage boy talking loudly, pacing up and down the café between tables, gesticulating wildly. I wish they’d ask this intrusion to our languid lunch to leave. He’s obviously not going to order anything. Then with a sudden jolt of realisation it occurs to me what he is waving around: a gun.

Just as the situation sinks in – erasing any cloud of relaxation with a shot of adrenaline – a younger boy, no more than 12, approaches our table and screams: “Move it! Damn it! Please.” Yes, he actually adds “please” to this otherwise aggressive request. His odd gesture obviously borne of some inexperience slips me a dash of confidence and I grab my camera from plain view on the table, shoving it into my zip pocket as unobtrusively as possible.

Customers are herded into the kitchen at the back. The young boy follows, frisking pockets along the way. He misses my camera but finds and swipes my companion’s sunglasses and our precious undeveloped roll of film from the Andes.

Replaceable money is one thing, but moments on film are, it seems, worth more than my life at that moment. My fluency in Spanish comes to the fore as I argue with the (unarmed) kid.

“No, no, you won’t be needing those. Give them back,” I hold out my hand for the sunglasses and roll of film, trying to remain calm.

And he does. But in an effort to reassert his control he shoves me roughly across the floor towards the kitchen where everyone else is huddled. I hurtle forward into the face of the distressed café owner. The boy frisks everybody, taking cash, watches: anything he can lay his hands on, all while the older boy rants and raves at the top of his voice, waving his gun while emptying the till.

In minutes it’s over and with a final and very Hollywoodesque “Anybody moves and I’ll blow your heads off” they’re gone. The owner, pale and shaken, rises off the floor to help staff and customers, some of whom are in panic-stricken hysterics.

Feeling shaken but lucky - the boys missed our credit cards, cash and camera - we get up slowly and make our way back to the table to drink the bottle of wine still standing there defiantly, as though no drama had unfolded around it; it’s just another day in Buenos Aires.