MY ARGENTINA ADVENTURE

The year was 1958. I was working for the American Embassy in Rio de Janeiro. Rio was still the capital of Brazil at that time, and the inauguration of the new Capital, Brasilia, was still two years away.

President Eisenhower made a State visit to Brazil, and at the Embassy, the work preparing for his visit never stopped. I’d work until 2.00 a.m, go home and get four hours of sleep, then go back to work for 8.00 a.m. And this went on for three weeks. Instead of overtime pay, I opted for compensatory time because I sorely needed a vacation and rest.

The U.S. Marine Band accompanied Eisenhower to Brazil, in order to play at all the State functions, especially the one taking place in the gardens of the U.S. Ambassador’s Residence, where we, the personnel of the U.S. Embassy, would get the opportunity to meet the great man himself. Those of us who’d worked our butts off ironing out all the details of his visit (we had a direct line to the White House and I spoke to White House personnel on several occasions – a big thrill) were especially excited as we were going to be presented to him first!

Then tragedy struck. The Marine Band were being flown to Brasilia, because Eisenhower was going to tour the upcoming Capital. When the plane carrying them took off from Santos Dumont airport, it collided with another plane (I don’t remember if it was a private plane or a commercial one) and both planes crashed into Guanabara Bay. All but three lives of the Marine Band were lost, and the three that were saved, had been sitting in the tail section of the plane which had snapped off and floated free from the rest of the wreckage so rescue crews were able to save the three lucky survivors. Dad arranged with the victim’s families to have a stained glass window made and installed in Christ Church (Dad’s Parish) as a memorial to these brave men.

In view of this tragedy, the cocktail party at which we were all going to meet Eisenhower was cancelled, and so were the rest of the State galas. His visit was cut short, and Ike returned to the States. It really was terribly sad, and both nations grieved.

I was exhausted and decided to take a vacation. I knew Bishop Evans lived on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, so using a White House phone, I called him to ask if I could stay with them for a few days. The connection was really bad, and all I could hear was him saying “Yes, yes, that will be fine.”

So I hopped onto a Varig (the Brazilian airline) plane, which I remember was one of those old fashioned four propeller engine tin cans. Now I HATE flying at the best of times, and this wasn’t one of those. There was bad weather all the way, and since this archaic plane didn’t have the capacity to fly OVER the storms which were raging, we flew UNDER them. And I do mean UNDER. As I gazed out of the window, I could see cattle in the fields and I was even able to tell which were cows and which were bulls! As if this wasn’t bad enough, there was a great deal of turbulence. To say I was scared out of my wits would be an understatement. Every time the plane bounced, I’d dig my nails into the arm of the poor bloke sitting next to me. He was very kind about it too, and kept pouring rum and Cokes down my throat to help me deal with my fear.

One take off and one landing is fine by me, since I hate both procedures. Just to add to my misery, we landed in Montevideo, Uruguay, which is located on the other side of the Rio de La Plata which divides the two countries. I think the Spanish Conquistadors who named this river, the “River of Silver,” were delusional or drunk, or both! There’s nothing “silver” about it – flying over it, I could clearly see it looked just like a flowing muddy swamp!

Finally, we landed in Buenos Aires, I collected my luggage then waited to be picked up at the airport by Bishop Evans. I waited … and waited … and waited. Finally the Varig Ground Hostess came over and asked me what my problem was, and why wasn’t I taking the shuttle bus into Buenos Aires. I told her I thought I was going to be picked up, and she suggested I get on the bus, she’d open up the Varig office in Buenos Aires (it was a Saturday and the office was closed for the weekend) and we’d phone Bishop Evans and find out where in the hell he was and what did he think he was doing, leaving me stranded at the airport!

So that’s what we did. When I phoned Bishop Evans, he not only wasn’t expecting me, he was astonished to find I was in Buenos Aires! I told him I’d phoned asking if I could stay with them, and he recalled my phone call. The misunderstanding happened because apparently he and his wife kept on getting crank calls from Peronistas (followers of the deposed President Juan Peron) who are very anti British, so whenever a garbled phone call came through, he made a point of saying “Yes, yes, that would be fine,” and then ringing off!
Well this was a fine pickle to be sure. I wasn’t even expected! Bishop Evans told me I’d have to make my own way to Hurlingham (where he lived) and instructed me to take a taxi to the San Martin train station and take a train to Hurlingham.

I thanked the Ground Hostess profusely for her help, got a cab and had him drive me to San Martin train station. As we drove along, I noticed that painted on walls and buildings everywhere were the huge letters P.V. I asked my cab driver what that meant, and he told me it meant “Peron Vuelta” which means “Peron will return!” As you can gather, at this time there was a lot of political unrest in Argentina. But come to think of it, when isn’t there political unrest in Argentina?

We arrived at the San Martin train station, where I found, to my horror, that it had been burnt down by the Peronistas, the week before! All that remained was the skeletal steel structure, and the ticket counters which were still operational – thank goodness.

I bought a ticket, and hailed a porter to carry my bag and guitar, telling him I wanted to catch the train that stopped in Hurlingham. He dutifully put me on a train, made a very eloquent speech welcoming me to Argentina, I paid him and he pushed off.

With a sigh of relief, I sat back on a seat and shortly afterwards, the train pulled out of the station and went chugging along.

I couldn’t help noticing that there was a sorry example of Argentinian manhood sitting opposite me who kept on staring at me in a most disconcerting manner. He was scruffy, unkempt, with black greasy hair and clothes that looked like they hadn’t seen soap and water for some considerable time.

To my horror, Romeo started trying to chat me up. I ignored him, but he was persistent. Finally, I said to him in my best Spanish “Look buster, I don’t speak Spanish very well, and if I did, I wouldn’t talk to you.”
Pretty blunt, wouldn’t you say? That would discourage even the bravest of Romeos, right? But oh no, not this one.

“Why not?” he asked.

Hm, that was a poser. I could hardly say “Because you are dirty, totally unattractive and you smell,” now could I? So I told him a whopper.

“Because I have a “novio” (fiance) who is extremely jealous and if he saw me talking to you, he’d be very angry and would most likely beat you up.”

Oh Romeo liked that explanation very much indeed. He puffed out his chest and positively preened like a peacock at the thought that anyone would be jealous of him (yeah right – in his dreams)!

At this point, the conductor came along and I handed over my ticket. He burst into a torrent of garbled words and started waving his arms around. I couldn’t make head or tail of his dialect, but Romeo could.
“You’re on the wrong train,” he said, “This one bypasses Hurlingham and doesn’t stop there.” AAAARGH! This “restful” vacation was going from bad to worse!

Romeo went on to tell me to get off at the next station, and wait for the next train that came along on that same track, and get on it because it would stop in Hurlingham.

When we arrived at the next station, Romeo leapt up, grabbed my case and guitar, put them down on the platform, grabbed my hand and kissed it. Then he jumped back onto his train with a merry “Hasta la vista” and disappeared out of my life. Oh well, in retrospect, although Romeo was scruffy, and smelly, he was gallant and kind too! I don’t know what I would’ve done without him (I probably would’ve ended up in Tierra del Fuego at the southernmost tip of Argentina, just a few miles off Antarctica)!

Sure enough, minutes later another train came along, and I heaved my stuff into it and got on. People in the carriage asked me where I was from. Thank goodness I said “Brazil” because “Brazil” was good, “Brazil” was “one of the good guys.” “England” on the other hand was “EL ENEMIGO” (the enemy – hated, loathed and detested because the Falkland Islands issue which Argentinians all believed should be theirs), and had I said that I was English, they almost certainly would’ve turfed me off the train, while it was hurtling along at full speed! Instead, people were friendly as all get out. Everyone started chatting to me and it almost became a party in that carriage.

When the train pulled into Hurlingham, I saw a very anxious Bishop Evans standing on the platform, who couldn’t believe his eyes when I came off the train. People helped me with my luggage, heads poked out of the windows, and shouts of “hasta luego” rang out as the train pulled away. He later told me that he was terrified for my safety because that train was full of Peronistas, who wouldn’t hesitate to kill an English girl and toss her body off a train. He added that he and his wife never ever went into Buenos Aires by train. But hey, those Peronistas were all delightful and friendly to me, because I was a “Brasilena.”

I went home with the Bishop and met his French wife, Claudine, for the first time. So far so good, wouldn’t you say? All’s well that ends well, right? No such luck – think again!

Next day I came down with the mumps! The Bishop was appalled because he’d never had mumps and figured I’d give them to him. He told me (in tones that didn’t broach any argument) that the best place to be when I was sick was back at home.

So next day, he drove me into Buenos Aires to the Varig office where he booked me on the next flight out of there. I got on the shuttle bus to go out to the airport, and coincidentally, I had the same kind Ground Hostess I’d had before.

“Don’t you like Argentina?” she asked. “Why are you going home just one day after arriving here?’ Glumly I pointed to my bulgy neck.

She thought for a minute. “Do you feel ill?” she asked. I told her no, other than a painful neck I felt fine.
”Wouldn’t you like to stay longer here in Argentina?”

Of course I would, but how could I do that?

She told me not to worry. She’d put me in a nice, inexpensive hotel and I make sure I had a wonderful time in Buenos Aires.

Well, I was game, so we went all the way to the Airport, she cancelled my flight home, then we came all the way back again.

She drove me to the “Florida Hotel” located on Florida Street. When she took me to book me in, the clerk said suspiciously “What’s wrong with her face?”

“Oh, she has a toothache,” my new friend said, lying in her teeth.

“Ob both sides of her mouth?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s right!” she replied, without batting an eye.

I found the Argentinians really fascinating. They are unlike any other people I’ve ever met. For one thing, traffic lights are often ignored – when you cross the street, you literally take your life in your hands – maybe they’ll stop on a red, but hey, maybe they won’t. Secondly, it’s against the law in Argentina for a driver to honk the horn of his car, so instead, they drape their arms out of the window and slap the outside of their car doors and shout loudly, if the lights change and nobody moves fast enough – or if the driver ahead of them pisses them off for one reason or another!

Another curious thing about Argentinians is their time schedules. Their work day usually starts at 10.00 a.m., then at 12.00 noon they all trundle back home for a 2 hour siesta. The work day continues from 2.00 pm up to 8.00, after which they all go home and eat supper at around 9.00. Then they turn out onto the streets just for fun, walking around aimlessly for hours, until they go home to sleep which is usually around midnight!

I stayed three weeks in Buenos Aires, and I had a wonderful time. My friend introduced me to a whole bunch of Varig employees who were friends of hers, and they took me all over the place. On my last night there, they took me to an Argentinian restaurant where I was introduced to “empanadas,” a kind of pasty filled with stuff – God only knows what. The problem was that each Province in Argentina had its own “empanada” (I believe there were 9 Provinces) and they expected me to eat one from each of the Provinces! They watched my face as I bit into each empanada, and of course I had to smack my lips and say how delicious each and every one of them was. Frankly, after “empanada” #3, I wished never to see another “empanada” again for the rest of my life!
Next day, they all came to the airport to see me off. In those days you had to walk across the tarmac and climb up the stairs leading into the aircraft. As I walked on the tarmac, accompanied by this huge entourage of ebullient friends, other passengers looked at me curiously, imagining I was a big movie star and maybe a television soap opera celebrity!

When I reached the stairs, after many hugs and kisses, my new friends presented me with a parting gift – a huge tray of UNCOOKED EMPANADAS FROM ALL NINE PROVINCES! Oh mercy, mercy!

I thanked them profusely, and flew back home, I gave those empanadas to Mum who had the cook stick them in the oven and bake them. Being definitely sick to death of empanadas, I didn’t eat any, so I didn’t come down with stomach ache and the runs like the rest of my family did. Apparently, empanadas don’t travel well.

That sure was one weird but very adventurous vacation! I certainly won’t ever forget it.

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