My Two Embarrassing Moments in Buenos Aires (Capitalism Comes to Mao’s Mausoleum-1: M. P. Prabhakaran)

Chapter 1

For those who are looking for the old-world charm, there are 19th-century colonial mansions, known for their grandiose architecture, on both sides of the streets. Most of the streets are paved with cobblestones. The mansions were, once upon a time, owned and occupied by upper-class Spaniards. To meet the housing needs of new waves of immigrants, mostly Italians, many of those mansions were later converted into multifamily apartment complexes. Lately, some of the mansions have also been converted into shops, art galleries, restaurants and bars.

Frolicking Argentines and fun-loving tourists bring San Telmo to life, especially on Sunday evenings. Adding to the fun and frolic is that world-famous art form the Argentine culture is inseparable from. The art form – yes, you have guessed it right – is the tango.

Tango dancers from various parts of Buenos Aires and beyond flock to San Telmo and perform at street corners and sidewalks. They do it partly in keeping up with an age-old tradition, but mostly to make a living by entertaining tourists. Some of them are just as good as famous tango dancers who perform at various night clubs of Buenos Aires. Watching the tango at night clubs would cost one anywhere between 20 and 100 U.S. dollars, depending on the popularity of the club and professional standing of the dancers. At San Telmo street corners, the cost is what one decides and can afford – an important factor that went into my opting for that place, rather than a night club.

I love the tango, especially the Argentine tango. I wanted to learn it ever since I was first exposed to it. Somehow, I never got down to doing it. Little did I know when I set out for San Telmo on that Sunday evening that my favorite dance was also going to give me one of the most embarrassing moments in my life.

My First Lesson in Tango

Most of the dancers that I saw in various street corners were in compatible pairs. By which I mean that there were no same-sex couples. One could tell from their performances that they had put into them a lot of planning and practicing. There were also dancers who would start the show solo and then persuade one of the spectators to join him or her as partner. “Another cost-cutting device in a country that is financially strapped?” I wondered. I dismissed the thought as fast as it came, reasoning: “Audience participation has always been an essential feature of street performances in every country and every culture.”

Some of the spectators who volunteered to participate were excellent dancers themselves. But those who did it only after a good deal of persuading by the street performers were pathetic to watch.

I was thoroughly enjoying the evening, taking in the sights and sounds of the cultural corner of Buenos Aires, when a cross-dressed woman performer caught my attention. In a double-breasted coat with a matching tie and a hat, and with a mustache waxed to keep its handlebar shape intact, she could probably be imitating an English country gentleman. (Many Argentines do imitate Europeans, making them the butt of jokes among other South Americans.) I stopped to watch her.

I knew it took two to tango. I was curious to find out whom from among the spectators she was going to pick as her partner – the actual opposite sex or the opposite sex which the man she was masquerading as called for? The curiosity turned into shock and fright when her choice fell on me.

My protestations, in English, that I hardly knew any steps were dismissed by her, in Spanish. I thought she said, “It doesn’t matter.” She dragged me to the center of the dance area, to the delight of the crowd. The crowd clapped and whistled.

“Shouldn’t the partner be of the opposite sex in appearance, too?” I shouted, to no one in particular.

“Come on, man, be a good sport,” one from the crowd shouted back. He had a British accent. It was an international crowd, I could tell.

The first thing the performer did was to press me against her taut breasts. That part, I must say, I really enjoyed. The handlebar mustache that brushed against my cheek did not diminish the enjoyment one bit.

But her next gesture made it clear that I was not to read too much into that physical contact. She pointed two fingers toward her eyes, meaning that I was supposed to look straight into her eyes. Which I did – nervously. Then she began to push me around, telling me – in Spanish, of course – which leg to move where. I nodded yes. Not that I understood a word of what she said. I was anxious to get it over with fast. The instructions ended with her asking me to fall on her right arm and throw my right leg up, pointing to the sky, the usual finale of a tango dance. Only then did I realize that she was expecting me to play the female role.

She turned the boom box on and the music began to blare. Once again, she held me tight. And once again, I could feel her breasts rubbing against my chest. But this time, I was too nervous to derive any pleasure out of it. She nudged me to take the first step. My first step, in my first tango dance in life, on my first visit to the land of the tango! Never had I imagined that that was also going to be my last step – at least for that evening.

My left heel fell on her right toes and nearly crushed them. She roared in pain. I apologized profusely. My explanation that the step mix-up was caused by the sex mix-up did not have any effect on her. She pushed me toward the spectators. They roared, too, but in exultation – and to my great embarrassment. If they had come out that evening to have a good time, I did not disappoint them.

As soon as the performer picked another partner from the crowd and I knew that nobody was watching me, I quietly withdrew from the scene. I rushed to a nearby sidewalk café and ordered a cool Argentine beer. The beer was very satisfying.

Visit to a Turkish Bath

I had one more embarrassing experience during my Buenos Aires trip. It happened at a Turkish bath. When the hotel I was staying in offered a free Turkish bath as part of the deal, I said to myself, “At long last, I am going to have the ecstatic experience I have been dreaming about all my life!” Until then, I had only seen it in movies and read about it.

The bath facility took up nearly a quarter of the hotel’s basement. The huge hall that led to the actual bath had a bar on one side and a locker room on the other. As I entered the hall, my stare fell on a group of men sitting around a table, drinking beer and playing cards. All of them were tall, old and fat. Those physical features were not what caused my stare, though. It was their nonchalant attitude to what they were exposing to one another. The towels they might have been wearing were lying beside them. They were wet, which made me guess that the men had just come out of the bath.

When the bartender saw my surprised look, he pointed his thumb toward the locker room. I knew what he meant. He meant not merely that I must be heading in that direction. He also meant that I was being stupid staring like that at his patrons.

Inside the locker room, there were men, most of them old, walking in and out of small cubicles. Only a few of them had towels wrapped around their waists. Others carried them in their hands. They couldn’t care less that an Indian was amused by their dangling private parts. This time, I tried hard not to show any surprise. I didn’t want the locker room attendant to repeat to me what the bartender had done only a couple of minutes earlier. The attendant handed a huge towel for me to change into and showed me the room where I would be having the actual steam bath.

As I entered the hot, steamy room, I saw several men sitting on benches. Some of them were completely naked and others partially so. They were also unconcerned about what they were displaying. One look at them, and I said to myself: “I am no match for any of these guys. Let me not reveal to them that I come from an underdeveloped country.”

I made for the exit fast, making sure that my towel was firmly in place.

(To be continued)

(M.P. Prabhakaran can be reached at [email protected])