Part I, Argentina on My Mind

                                                                       

Whatever they think of her, always an enigma

     Actually, I never had intentions of visiting the country, too many psychic reservations.
     As a professor, before I retired, teaching writing, as well as Mexican, Chicano, and Latin American literature, I wanted to visit as many Spanish-speaking countries as possible, but truthfully, Argentina was never high on my list, even though it was the home of the great writer Jorge Luis Borges.
     I’d heard Argentina, in the 18th and 19th centuries, under generals like Julio Rocca, was one of the few countries in Latin America to completely eradicate its indigenous people, primarily the Inca, leaving hardly a trace of the once proud culture.
     This was reason enough to avoid visiting the place. Yet, how could I, an American, who knew my own country’s extermination of millions of native people, the enslavement of millions of Africans, and the theft of vast lands from weaker countries, act so patriotically self-righteous?
     On the other hand, if I wanted to visit a Spanish-speaking European country, I preferred Spain, where I spent a year as a student studying at the University of Granada, back in 1978, and have followed up with many pleasurable and edifying visits since.
     Anyway, that’s how I thought of Argentina, as the only Spanish-speaking “European” country in Latin America, followed close behind by Uruguay and Paraguay. Argentines, tongue-in-cheek, even describe themselves as a people who happen to be Italian, speaking Spanish, but thinking themselves French, with some German thrown in, or something to that effect.
     The first time Argentina even came up on my radar was in the 1978. A friend, a contractor, said a wealthy client had given him tickets to a play at the Shubert Theater in Century City, or maybe it was the Ahmanson in downtown Los Angeles. Either way, it was a big production.
     I’d never been to blockbuster play. He told me it was titled Evita, though I had no idea who she was, fiction or real. I’d heard of the play. It had been splashed all over the L.A. Times Calendar section. Why not go, free tickets, right?
     We were theater neophytes, not a Thespian bone in either of our Chicano bodies. Once in our seats, I leaned over and asked, “What’s this play about, anyway?” He smiled and said, “It’s about a woman who ‘hooked’ her way to the top.”
     I don’t even remember if the play made an impact on me. It must have. Years later, in 1996 or so, I was obsessed by Andrew Lloyd Weber’s music in the movie Evita as sung by Madonna and Antonio Banderas, a bit more of a rock tinge to it.
     The next time Argentina reached my consciousness was in 1982, when the country fought the Brits over the Malvinas, or what England called the Falkland Islands. Of course, I pulled for the Argentines, whom I saw as my linguistic brothers and sisters. However, now that I know more about Argentina’s shady politics of the time, I, and many Argentinians, I’m sure, would vehemently protest any defense of the islands, especially the young Argentine soldiers whose deaths served no other purpose than to distract the world from a murderous military regime.
     Then came Operation Condor, a military massacre of savage proportions between Chile, Bolivia, and Argentina, planned and sponsored by U.S. intelligence, to exterminate (or “disappear”) hundreds to thousands of leftist students and activists trying to bring attention to right-wing corruption and brutal fascist policies, many innocent youth caught up in the sweep, and to this day, mother’s still gather to protest in front of the famed Casa Rosada looking for answers.
     Of course, much of the world thinks of Argentina as the country, under fascist dictator, Juan Peron, husband of Eva, who allowed free entry to surviving Nazi war criminals after WWII, especially the notorious Adolf Eichmann, working for Mercedes, and captured by Israeli’s Mossad in 1960 living in San Fernando, a suburb of Buenos Aires.
     Most recently, Argentina has come up in my wife’s family discussions. My brother-in-law, Ruben De Necochea or Denecochea, depending on one’s spelling preference, an avid family historian, tracked his family’s roots from Calexico, CA, across the border to Mexicali, down through Mexico, Central America, and across the Andes by way of Chile and Peru to Argentina, where he claims blood with an Argentine general, Mariano Necochea, a hero of the Argentine-Peruvian wars with Chile.
     So that, and a few raucous Argentine acquaintances, over the years, has been the extent of my relationship with the southernmost Latin American country.
     Honestly, I had no travel plans on the horizon, when a friend, an archeology professor, asked if I wanted to visit Argentina, along with a group from the college where I had worked before my retirement. A Latin-Americanist, Professor Brandon Lewis’ trips covered a lot of territory.
     In Peru, a year ago, we took planes and buses as we traveled, nearly, a quarter of the country, visiting Inca ruins and major Peruvian cities, from Lima to Cusco, Aguas Calientes, Machu Picchu, Arequipa, and back to Lima.
                                                                                 

Iguazu, just a portion of a world's wonder

     On this trip, Brandon told me, as an enticement, we’d be touring Buenos Aires before flying to Iguazu waterfalls in the northeast corner of Argentina, bus it into Brazil to see the waterfalls from a Portuguese perspective, then fly to Salta up in the northwest corner, and down to Mendoza, Argentina’s wine country, along the base of the Andes, as I said, covering a lot of territory in just sixteen days.
     The travel bug got the best of me. Just as John Steinbeck said in his classic book Travels with Charley, “Four hoarse blasts of a ship’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping.” That’s exactly how I feel when my car hits the open highway or I walk into any air, bus, or train terminal in the world.
     After all, it’s the American way, right. Our ancestors travelled, long distances, and often through treacherous situations, from some place else to get here. Travel is in our blood. I'd rather spend my money on a get-away than a car or house. As educators, my colleagues and I never asked each other what kind of car we drove or where we lived. The first question when we returned from summer breaks was always, "So, where did you travel?"
     With that, I packed my suitcase, not only with my personal necessities, but with my preconceived notions about Argentina, hoping that sixteen days might give me an answer or two about the place that seemed so distant, least of all, in miles.

Stay tuned for Part II, My Argentine Journey