DON’T TRY FOR ME ARGENTINA
After a few days spent people watching while sipping on Malbec wine on street corners and buying dulce de leche to take home to friends and family, I had run out of money again. A few days before I had utilised three different ATMs around Buenos Aires before the reality dawned on me: I would have to again pay the bank fee of R200 to draw money — and this only in Argentina, not even taking into consideration the additional fee I would have to pay to my bank back home. Dragging my friend and gracious host with me, I approached a row of dreaded ATMs, opting for the first one I arrived at. A sliver of apprehension stirred in me as I inserted my bank card into the slot. I pressed the green button. Si — I would like to draw money. Si — from my credit card. Deciding to draw more this time to avoid having to pay the exorbitant bank charges yet again, I punched in the amount of 2,000 Argentine pesos.
Happily, the Spanish equivalent of “transaction successful” flashed across the screen, granting me a split second of relief, which all but evaporated as soon as I realised no bank notes were being spat out. Seeing me spiral, my friend intervened. “Relax. Don’t worry. Try another ATM,” he advised.
By this time, red lights were flashing before my eyes and a cacophony of voices were yelling in my head. I was a student and so this was an enormous amount of money to be robbed of. I could see myself bartering for train tickets and alfajores (cookies) two days before my flight back to Johannesburg was to depart. “You will get it back. Don’t worry,” Humberto repeated, trying to calm me down.
The next ATM did actually give me the money. I breathed, relieved but pale and panic-stricken about whether the other amount would be deducted too. I had just enough time to stash the money before Humberto whisked me away. We were around the corner from his favourite café, he declared.
Housed in the Retiro train station, it was the kind of place that exists only in movies. Moody lights washed through the space and live piano music danced off the walls as patrons ordered strong cups of coffee, lost in books or lively conversation. I could feel myself being fortified by the Brazilian beans.
The handcrafted leather bags and artworks sold at the sprawling Feria de Recoleta added to the perfect distraction, if not offering a temptation to spend all the money I had just drawn. Friendly faces sipping herbal concoctions through metal straws protruding from mate pots quickly made me feel at ease, and the banking fees were all but forgotten.
A short stroll from the market, we happened upon the Recoleta Cemetery, where Eva Perón was laid to rest in 1976, 24 years after her death. Making my way between the sunlit tombs, both impressive and eerie, I soon found Evita’s grave. I didn’t need to look at the name on the tombstone to know it was hers. Fresh flowers were strewn around the concrete slab and an old woman dressed in black stood to the side, nearly doubled over sobbing. It is true: her people loved her.
From there we made our way to the banks of the Rio de la Plata, where we drank beer until the sun set.
The minute we got home, I frantically connected to the WiFi and logged in to my bank account. Relief flooded me. There was only one deduction of 2,000 Argentine pesos. “Humberto, you were right — it’s all right! The first transaction didn’t go through,” I declared triumphantly.
“Thank goodness,” came Humberto’s reply. “I had no hope that you would ever see that money again!”
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