The soul of tango, and fairytales grim

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On a cool summer's eve, along a slow, side street of a northwest Patagonian town, a hint of Astor Piazzolla floats through the air.

It is a quiet Sunday night, without much street or pavement traffic, nor regular shop lights to distract a casual stroller.

The lilt of the rhythm drifting out of the purple dark comes from the direction of a group of casual eateries, a block or three away.

A pause in the beat, a faint clapping of hands chatters lightly, until a minute or two later a different yet similar tune filters from what must be now just around the corner.

Tango.

A tiny piece of a nation's soul is playing out on a small, round, roofless suburban plaza - an urban salon, perhaps a more appropriate appellation.

Not large, some 20-25m in diameter, the paved circle is part-surrounded by a low wall, along which sit a scattering of very casually dressed spectators. Behind them stand a few dozen more, nattering or not, some holding a beer or take-away food, but all with eyes on 'the stage', where a dozen couples twirl, strut and flirt to the music being played by a quartet discretely placed just outside the dance limit.

A double-take, a shock surprisingly, enjoyably gentle and soothing, after having plied and plod through miles and miles of hard-nosed tourists (not all), tourist destinations, tourist traders, must-see mountains, lakes, continental extremes, all aboard ...

The Patagonian section of Route 40, a 5,000km-long highway that stretches most of the south-north length of Argentina's western flank, is referred to as the country's adventure road.

It is.

Seriously world class trekking, hiking, skiing, angling, mountain, river and lake views. Tourists from around the globe, and many, many Argentinians pay their respects.

Of course that's not all they pay. Every visitor is regarded as a walking ATM machine, where near-every thrill comes with a cashier's trill. It is a pretty hard-nosed sector of the planet, albeit gorgeous.

And here, the far northwest of Patagonia, in low-key El Bolson, small cousin town and 200km south of Bariloche (regarded as the classy heart of the country's mountain action), a little group of local citizenry comes out to float with a partner, practice their flexes, and smile carefree into the dying gloam.

This is no dance competition, just a soft weekend night out. The participants are of all shapes, sizes, ages and styles. Young and old, thick of thigh and lissome, tight lycra and flowing frocks, jeans, sneakers, sandals and shiny, pointy leather shoes. 50-year-olds dance with 20-year-olds. 30-year-olds dance with 30-year-olds. All with varying degrees of style and skill. Some men lead, some women lead not-so-skilled men.

Then the music stops.

Polite applause from the spectators. Bows and curtsies. Some of the couples drift apart. Eye contact is made with different, hopeful, eager players.

It is karaoke tango. Where all come to dance.

Not all come as couples. Singles wait their turn for another single dancer to show interest, embrace, set, step, step, and forget the world for a few brief minutes.

A whirl or two, a bow, another partner.

The darkness floats on 2/4 time. It feels as if the night itself takes its own bow to thank those on and off the floor for their kindly moments of generosity and gentleness.

Does this happen every weekend? Was it somebody's birthday? Is it too cold in winter? No idea.

Just briefly there is a glimpse into what a traveller (not a tourist) tries so hard to find in a foreign land: not the Taj Mahal, pyramids or Machu Picchu ... how the locals honestly enjoy themselves, what makes them smile.

Almost a fairytale.

But like so many fairytales, there is the lightness, fantasy, royalty, and the grim.

And it helps to have a story-teller.

Fourth-generation Patagonian Marco is a natural raconteur.

The king of Patagonia is a living, breathing being, he delights in revealing, living in 'self-declared' exile in France. Frederic the First, the eighth in a line dating back to Orelie-Antoine the First, who declared a part of Patagonia independent from Argentina, along with Auracania, a slice of Chile, in November 1860.

Orelie-Antoine, an adventurer and lawyer had told the local, indigenous Mapuche people that he could 'free' them from their colonial masters, and falsely boasted he would have the military backing of France to help do so. They decided to elect him head honcho, he declared independence, wrote a constitution, named a capital, created a flag and had coins minted.

Chile would have none of it, arresting him in January 1862, declared him insane, and soon after sent him packing back to France. A realm of some 14 months.

The mad old king tried repeatedly, unsuccessfully to return, eventually dying a pauper in his home country. But before his last rites, handed over 'the crown' to a like-minded confidante, who in turn later did same, an act repeated to the present day.

Derided by most as 'conceited, vain Frenchmen', the mad monarchy is apparently still occasionally referred to by the Mapuche, who continue to wage an on-off independence campaign.

El Bolson itself, in the summer, is a beautiful town, lush and green of valley, along which flow crystal-clear snow-fed streams and rivers. Not the greyish glacier-coloured flows of further south. It is known as the gay and weed capital of the nation. It is heaven for summer school-leavers who convince their parents they are flying to Bariloche, the more established destination to the north, and then quickly bus south with their new backpacks, and new roll-up mattresses, for a bit of wild camping, partying and a few tokes in a town, and region, that historically has turned a blind eye to such matters, and others.

But the town also carries false promises, regales Marco further, with a twinkle in his eye.

For four or five months of the year, it carries a gentle clime and verdant gardens. Visitors are often enamoured, dreaming of a perfect escape from the big smoke. They pack their bags, and semigrate.

Winter, however, lurks. While it might not be as harsh as 1,000km further south, each year there are weeks when the snow closes the north and south access roads.

As he puts it: "They come, get an apartment, live the dream for few months. Then the snow comes, no food or fuel comes in, supermarkets quickly empty, the power goes off for days at a time, and they had no idea what was coming, or that they should prepare, as we have learnt to do for 100 years.

"For days, or at worst weeks at a time, the town's new inhabitants, who have not yet had time to make real friends, have to look at each other across the table, and find their own amusements. It is not called the town of separation for nothing," he chortles. "If they make it through one season, they'll be together for life. If not, their marriage is bust. Most bust."

Then the dark side. Yet, it's not a fairytale, he whispers.

For the late part of the 19th and early part of the 20th century, Patagonia became like 'the new world' of old, for anyone wanting a new start, or to get away from their old lives.

Little villages some 150 years ago sprouted up, seeded by a myriad nationalities. Welsh, Italian, French, Lebanese, Russian, German, Scottish, Croat ... of course all intruding on and often displacing the long-term local residents.

"There was even a Cossack suburb of old people near where I lived as a child," enthuses a font of local information.

El Bolson was initially a pure German village, basically a series of small farmlands. At some point, as immigrants poured into the country after World War 1 seeking land and/or fortune, the government declared that any German offspring living in the El Bolson area, who married a person who arrived through Buenos Aires, would be granted an extra piece of land for the couple to settle on.

Bariloche, north, began it's western way of life as a transit point for traders crossing the Andes mountains from Chile. The first permanent foreign settler, Chilean-German Carlos Wiederhold, opened a store named 'La Alemana' (The German) in 1895.

The farm-trade village slowly grew into an Alpine-like holiday, tourist town for Argentina's elite, developing a Bavarian-style architecture alongside Nahual Huapi Lake, 75km long and 10km wide, an important part of the route from Chile and back. Europeans were entranced. It soon offered snow resorts, water skiing, sporting Swiss-style chocolateries, fondue restaurants, high-priced steak houses, many with Germanic-style names.

Enter the darker chapter of the tale, continues my informant, sotto voce.

1945, the end of World War 2, in a time of fascist fashion and dictatorships, Argentina's president Juan Peron was a fan of Hitler, and facilitated in organising a route from Europe for fleeing Nazis.

Bariloche, among other nearby enclaves in Argentina and Chile, with its Germanic community and history, and a compliant government, became a prized destination.

Rumours vary wildly as to numbers.

Another Bariloche old-timer joins the Malbec circle, and mentions that his father, of Spanish and Italian descent, was forced to join the local Nazi Youth League while at a local school.

Confirmation from all that April 20, until around 30-40 years back, was celebrated in local town squares. Hitler's birthday.

Patagonia always welcomed outsiders, always turned a blind eye. Until a publicly fateful day in 1994 when a wanted Nazi criminal, Erich Priebke, a former SS commander who had overseen the massacre of hundreds of Italians, was confronted in a public street, and admitted his part in the atrocity.

Bariloche expressed deep shock. Priebke had made the town his for nearly 50 years, and had risen to become a prominent citizen.

Some of the town even refused to believe the allegations against 'their perfect neighbour'. A newspaper ran a campaign on his behalf.

Priebke was extradited to Italy, and convicted.

It is suspected others in Bariloche, including a known senior French Vichy government officer ran for cover, or just put their heads down, and kept them down.

More rumours of small rooms in anonymous houses filled with old memorabilia, small private parties on special dates.

My new history-minded acquaintances tell me of strange goings-on in the beautiful Bavarian-style civic centre, at the heart of the town, overlooking the large, deep blue lake.

The waterway had long been used as part of the route from Chile. Word has it of observers standing at the upper window of the civic centre's tower, watching over many kilometres of water, waving flags by day, or flashing lights by night to safely guide home the latest refugee.

A local offers a daily "In the footprints of Nazis" tour. Not for me, thanks.

The empty Malbec bottle pile grows, as do more whispers of rumours, and rumours of whispers.

Strange, and stranger. In a stunningly beautiful setting, once truly in the middle of nowhere.

How many snow-capped mountains and crystal lakes can one endure?

All aboard, north, Mendoza, wine capital of Argentina ... though in truth, the winelands stretch another 1,000km north along the eastern trough of the Andes.

First big city in four months. First elevator in four months. A bus station of 49 ticket counters for different companies and lines, 92 shops, stalls and kiosks of all shapes and wares. What to do when the bus arrives at 7am, and guest house check-in is 1pm.

Shit, it's hot. As vegetation changes along a road, so do temperatures.

Middle of the afternoon, near 40 C degrees. It is a baking 40 C degrees. Sapping. Not the temperature to be lugging any kind of backpack.

The heat is curious, it is a daily growing heat, unrelenting, and non-surrendering. From sunrise it gets hotter, and hotter, and hotter.

Until you approach, panting, 5pm, and it gets yet hotter. There is no breeze in the inner city. The temperature seems to build upon itself, with no cooling element offering relief. It is so obvious now why most of the country dines at nine.

Most of the night temperature hovers above the mid 20s. A fan does not suffice. A dampened sheet, a trick conjured up in even hotter Varanasi, is the only palliative.

Yet, by day, keeping to the shadows, walking slowly, breathing slowly, discover a classy, unhurried old-style city.

Demolished by an earthquake in 1861, it was rebuilt with pre-warned care. The roads, many heavily tree-lined, are much wider than usual - to allow space for the rubble to fall in the next episode.

Every few blocks there are elegant parks, small and large, fountains, statues, benches, foliage.

There is a peculiar peace. The traffic is slow, there is almost a paucity of vehicles. Dozens of buses run in all directions. People use them. Taxis abound. People use them. There is no taxi war, bus war, pavement war, street fuss.

Many linger and enjoy the shade offered by the parks, through day and night. There are no loiterers, no hustlers, there is no fear of strolling down the road in the middle of the night, no fear of sitting on a park bench in the middle of the night. It could almost be Hong Kong.

There is a calm delicacy, decency in the residents. Among the expected young to middle-aged pedestrians are many elderly. Walking slowly alone, or tenderly hand-in-hand. There is no fear of the aged being mugged.

A similar experience felt across the whole of the country, yet so much more-so in the middle of a big city.

Soporific bliss under a harsh, harsh sun.

Most people only realise that Rio de Janeiro is holding its annual carnival when they begin to see the pictures on some media platform, or on the telly.

It is in fact a continental time of celebration. All towns and cities hold their own parties, local style, for between three and seven days.

So too, I discover, in the Catholic zones of Germany. In other Catholic countries? Probably, though I've no idea.

It is the days of celebration before Ash Wednesday, signalling the onset of Lent, 40 days until Easter. Wikipedia can be a wonderful thing.

Mendoza is too hot to be standing in the street for days, watching very sweaty parades.

Time to find a cooler party of my own choosing.

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(24 photos, see more below, as in previous blogs)

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