January 2004
Dear family and friends,
It's going to be another beautiful day, I thought, as I teed up my ball. The cobalt blue sky was cloudless, and at 18 degrees (my tee time was 7:00AM again), it promised to be ideal for another great round of golf. The quiet of the day was only disturbed by the morning chorus of the kea, saddleback, tieki, kakapo and other local birds flitting about in the pohutukawa trees around the clubhouse.
The number one hole at the Masterton Golf Club in Wairarapa County New Zealand is a straight forward par five, 504 meters (552 yards), a bit of a dogleg right, and slightly up hill. Later in the day I might use my three wood, but as there was a bit of dew, and with the air just a little heavy at this time in the morning, I chose my driver. An easy swing would get me the 300 plus yards I needed to put me in position for a little five wood into the green and a putt for eagle.
I hit it perfectly. Favouring the right side of the fairway with a slight draw, my ball climbed all the way and came to rest exactly where I had intended, on the left side of the fairway with an open shot home. There was a murmur of appreciation and a smattering of applause from the club members who had begun to gather each day to watch me tee off.
As I stepped off the tee Bob Frost, wearing suspenders as always, gave me his thumbs up sign and rasped "Another great start Merv." Dave Spurrell, who never finds it easy to give a compliment, just nodded in apparent agreement. John Holmes just gazed off in despair. Their slumped shoulders and the looks of resignation on all their faces almost made me feel sorry for them, particularly after the whipping I had given them yesterday. They had all played the rounds of their lives and yet they were all dormie to me after nine holes. It had been the same every day since we arrived. This is so easy, so automatic.
Wait a minute! Bob Frost? Dave Spurrell? John Holmes? What the hell are they doing here with me? They don't even know each other. And to my knowledge, neither Quiet Bob nor Spurrell even claims to be able to golf. John tries, I know, but...
It was then I woke up.
I'm not in New Zealand. I'm in Buenos Aires. In Argentina. Oh, right, now I remember. After more or less planning all summer to go to New Zealand and golf all winter, at the last minute I made another of my infamous 180's and here I am in South America, off tripping around for the next few months. My plan, as much as I do plan, is to visit Argentina, with a short side trip to Uruguay, then down to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, up the coast of Chile to Santiago, on to Quito, Ecuador where I will join small groups to visit the Galapagos Islands, and then transit Ecuador and Peru ending in La Paz, Bolivia. I do hope to meet with John and Carol Holmes in Santiago. Maybe we can have a game of golf there.
So Argentina. The first European to arrive was the Italian explorer, Américo Vespucio who landed in what is now Argentina. He was followed by others including another Italian, Sebastian Cabot, in 1526. (You know, Cabot, the son of the guy who arrived in our Maritimes in 1497.) Hearing of great riches, and fearing Portugal would get them all, Spain sent an expedition led by Pedro de Mendoza who founded Santa Maria del Buen Aire. Suffering great resistance from the natives, and finding no riches, the Spanish soon abandoned their colony, not returning for another 40 years. Further, most of immigration to Argentina that followed was not from Spain but rather from the other Spanish, Italian, German, Portuguese, and French colonies on the continent.
On July 9, 1816 the colony declared its independence, but it was not until Jose de San Martin and Simon Bolivar defeated the Spanish in Peru that true independence was achieved. San Martin is near deified in Argentina with streets, plazas, waterfalls, and a city named after him. Decades of struggle between the Unitarists in Buenos Aires and the Federalists elsewhere followed, but by the end of the 19th century Argentina was one of the wealthiest countries in the world, based primarily on the export of cereals. Unfortunately the wealth was largely concentrated in the hands of a few elite families.
A military coup in 1943 led by Juan Domingo Peron was followed, in turn, by his election as president in 1946. Peron's rule, supported by his wife Eva Duarte de Peron, was a period of turmoil not totally free of fascism. In 1976 the last military coup occurred installing the regime of Jorge Rafaél Videla. The next seven years are now referred to as the Dirty War, ‘Guerra Sucia’, during which as many as 30,000 dissidents (intellectuals, unionists, leftists etc.) disappeared, all assumed to have been tortured and killed by the regime. Yet today the mothers of the ‘disparecidos’, the missing ones, protest every Thursday in Plaza de Mayo still seeking information on those who are lost.
(Interestingly, one day I stopped for lunch in a downtown restaurant and had occasion to share a table with a couple of businessmen, a lawyer and a customs' broker. They were both very gracious, inquisitive about Canada, and quite willing to tell me about Argentina. When the conversation got around to world affairs, Iraq etc. the lawyer asked me, "Do you know why we no have terrorists?" The answer. "Because we keel them all." This was a conversation I did not want to have, but he made it clear that he believed the killing of tens of thousands of persons during the Dirty War was not all a bad thing. To him, protesters, civil rights activists, unionists, and their like were the next thing to terrorists.)
And, Buenos Aires. Thirteen million Argentineans live here, nearly one third of the country's population. First impressions are of a lovely, sophisticated city much more European than Latin American. I think it reminds me more of Italy than Spain, but, in any event, it has beautiful Colonial architecture, broad, tree-lined streets, and acres of parks. My hotel is on Avenida 9 de Julio 8 (from Independence Day fame). The street was apparently styled after the Champs Elysees, and Porteneos (i.e., the locals, it means port people) claim this street is the widest in the world at 144 meters.
The people, particularly those in upscale Recoleta, are usually elegantly dressed in the latest of world fashions. My Aunt Phoebe would have felt quite at home here. Well into her seventies, she dressed like a fox in mini skirts with flash jewelry. I have seen many ladies of Phoebe's vintage strolling down the avenues similarly turned out. Another nice thing is men need not wear socks unless they are in a full business outfit. There are many dogs in the city and one often sees 'paseaperros', professional dog walkers, shepherding as many as a dozen dogs along the sidewalks. I don't know how they keep all the leashes straight. Unfortunately, Buenos Aires does not appear to have a pooper-scooper law, so my strolls can entail some hopscotch.
I arrived one week ago Tuesday and have now had a several days to wander. So far I have covered most of the main downtown areas, Microcentre, Recoleta, and the areas of La Boca and San Telmo where the city began. A highlight for me was a visit to the Recoleta Cemetery. There are more than 6,400 mausoleums holding the remains of the elite of Argentinean society from the last century. It is unquestionably the most extravagant Cemetery I have ever seen. The mausoleums are quite extraordinary, all black granite, white marble, wrought iron, and forged steel. One I noted was about 20'x 20' at the base and rose to a height of nearly 40'. Locals say that it is important to live in Recoleta while alive, but it is even more important to stay here in death.
By far the most visited mausoleum is that of Eva Maria Duarte de Peron, or as we all know her, Evita. Her interment in Recoleta is apparently quite controversial even today. Near deified by the masses as a champion of women and the poor, according to the ruling elite, her own background as a commoner should have kept her out of Recoleta. Interestingly, Evita's husband, ex-President Juan Peron, is not buried here, but his remains are to be found at a less prestigious final address in another nearby Cemetery, la Chacarita.
Argentina is probably known to us all for its cattle (gauchos, pampas and all). Not surprisingly, Buenos Aires is famous for its restaurants and particularly the 'parrilla', which is a restaurant featuring grilled meat. Over wood fires beef, pork, chicken, buffalo, boar, and lamb are grilled to perfection. Lean cuisine has definitely not arrived here. Great slabs of beef streaked with fat sizzle all the way to your table to be downed with quaffable, and cheap, Argentinean wine. 'Bife de chorizo' is a common cut served. I think we would call it a New York or Delmonico steak and it is best enjoyed 'a punto', or 'at the point', medium rare. Few vegetables other than a salad or the ubiquitous french fries are served with the meat, but chimmichurri sauce (garlic, chili, and spices) is always available. Having now had several meals in a number of parrilla, the best being La Brigada in the San Telmo district, I have to say it is the best beef I have ever had.
An institution in Buenos Aires is Cafe Tortoni, a coffee house/restaurant on Avenida de Mayo. Since 1858, according to the menu, famous artists, politicians, and intellectuals have frequented the establishment. With high ceilings, polished wood panel walls covered with pictures and paintings, oak and marble tables, white linen, it is all very impressive. A distinguished looking elderly gentleman (a double of Johnny Carson's sidekick, Ed McMahon) greets everyone at the door. I had a very enjoyable light lunch there one day. Coffee and a double ham and red pepper sandwich cost only $4.00. I don't know though, I always think that when the menu tells you of the famous people who come there, the famous people have long since stopped coming. I know I'll stop when they mention me on the menu.
Well that's it for now. I have added a number of new folks to my mailing list to let you know where I am. I hope that is okay and I hope that you are all well.
Merv.
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