below the equator IX: looking for carlos gardel and getting lost in the other cemetery.

[The Entrance Gate. Video is mine]

Only in Buenos Aires can the wealthy and powerful elite keep their status after death.

Argentines are a strange bunch who tend to celebrate their most honored national figures not on the date of their birth, but on the date of their death (after all, they’re nobody when they’re born).

~~ Buenos Aires City Guide (Lonely Planet). 6th edition.

Many cities have many cemeteries. Buenos Aires has essentially two. The most popular, most visited by tourists, and the one that is the final resting place of Argentina’s most famous first lady, Evita, is Recoleta. Then there is the other cemetery, Chacarlita.

Rested and fresh from our brief excursion to Uruguay, here I am, drenched in sweat, on an intensely hot sunny Sunday afternoon, sipping cool water to prevent systemic dehydration, keeping to the shady side of things to avoid periods of blacking out, standing outside the gate of the other cemetery.

That’s just the way I am. I will endure discomfort of nearly all kinds, except snakes and rats and a certain sub-species of millipedes. There is a name for those like me who admire and even appreciate cemeteries. I’m a taphophile. And it’s not illegal or even immoral. Call me morbid, but it’s really all about paying homage to some person you appreciate or to just stand a few feet away from the mortal remains of someone who changed a little bit of history. The latter was the reason I sought out Evita’s mausoleum in Recoleta.

Like Recoleta, Chacarita is a virtual city of stone and statuary. The domed crypts are very impressive. The streets are narrow and lined to the limit with mausoleums. Some of these are new and clean and polished. Others are broken, unkempt, and even…dare I say it…open. One had a tiny stairway that led down at least two stories below street level. You could not not look. You could not help but wonder what is down there.

We are outside Chacarita, the less famous, less touristy, and, I must say, more user unfriendly of the two places. There is no entrance fee here, which is okay. But as I’ve said before, I don’t mind paying for something as long as the pesos go to upkeep and amenities, (banos). But, my biggest issue is that are no maps here. Travelers like me come to these places seeking out one or more famous graves. This is the map provided:

[Map at entrance. Hard to read and no directions to the famous and notable graves. Photo is mine]

I was in this particular cemetery to visit one grave, no more and no less. Not that I wasn’t interested in the other notable people here, because I was. But at this point in our visit, time was a consideration. It was essential that I find this man’s monument and place a flower among the bouquets that I was sure would adorn the facade. Getting the flower was probably the easiest task I performed. As we neared the main entrance I noticed six or seven kiosks selling flowers (for the families who were visiting a relative). I didn’t want to haul a dozen roses around so I walked past the vendors. I had seen something ahead. It was a splash of color in a waste receptacle. I wasn’t dumpster-diving. What I saw was a perfectly good bunch of violet flowers placed carefully in the bin. I snipped a small bud off and Mariam stored it in her purse.

We were good to go.

The person we were seeking? None other that the famous singer, Carlos Gardel. More on him shortly.

So, after walking to the office, which was closed, I spied an officious woman standing to one side. Using the two words of Spanish that I know I said:

“Carlos Gardel?”

After a minute or two of hand waving to the direction where we just came from, and my writing down what she said, we were off.

She said: “Calle 33”.

I wrote it down.

“Si,” she said.

“Gracias,” I said.

We were off. But after wandering for fifteen minutes along empty streets and finding no Calle 33, I called a halt. We both needed water and some shade. (This cemetery is not nearly as green as Recoleta). A man was walking away. I called out: “Senior? Carlos Gardel?” He shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way.

We walked further. Getting more and more lost. And lost in a cemetery in Argentina was not how I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon.

We came upon a small section with several hundred in-ground burials. “No, Please,” I said to no one. I saw a couple. Mariam sat down to activate her Travel Pass on her phone. I went up to the couple and they showed me a map on their phone. I saw where we needed to go. I went back to Mariam and said: “I have it.”

Three minutes later, we were lost again. Did the couple say straight on for three streets and up one or down three and over three? I couldn’t remember. They were Argentines after all. A half a block and a man approached asking if we were lost. I said: “Carlos Gardel”.

“Ah, Si,” he said.

Wait. Was this guy a serial killer? American Couple Missing In Argentina Cemetery

His English speaking wife appeared from behind a tree where she had been standing. Not hiding, just catching the shade.

But, this time I was going to be ready. I pulled out my little Moleskin notebook and pencil. I sketched this:

[Note book and photo are mine]

This is nice, but it isn’t very much help at all when you need to locate someone. As I mentioned, I was determined to locate Carlos Gardel. I’ve spoken about him before, but those who scrolled past that part, he is the Frank Sinatra, Elvis, and Englebert Humperdink of Argentina. Handsome and debonair, he is the master of the tango song form. Others may have their favorite, but Carlos is my guy when I want to cry from a woman’s rejection or from her warm and comforting arms. The dance is sensual and the songs are as well. Each one taking you to that place where the heartbroken, lonely, and rejected people go. But, paradoxically, it’s also where the lovers, reconciled now, meet in the shadows of a Banyan tree or beside a wall plastered with posters of Che Guevara.

Carlos had it all. Mariam and I ate our dinner on our terrace on more than one night with his baritone in the near background.

Back to our search for Carlos Gardel’s grave site.

[This monument needs work. Hence the tape barrier. It also needs a forester. Photo is mine]

We walked on. At the corner, just ahead, was a couple. They were looking at something.

“Gotta be it, Mariam,” I said with enthusiasm. The couple left as we approached. And, we were there, finally. But just to be sure, I looked closely at the name, just to be sure.

CARLOS GARDEL

[Approaching Gardel’s grave site. Video is mine]

We sipped some water and stood in the shade. I marveled at how many organizations had found a way to have their own little plaque added to the white marble.

We made it. But we needed to sit down and sip more water in the hard to find shade. I wiped my brow. I haven’t been this wet since I soaked in a Jacuzzi two years ago.

We turned and began to weave our way through the narrow empty streets to the main avenue that encircled the cemetery. I wondered where everyone was, until I realized that it was 90 F and most sane people were sitting in a cool cafe gulping fresh lemonade.

After exiting the grounds I asked the security guard where I might find a nice cafe. He pointed across the street. Other than the word “CAFE”, it was all done silently.

Like a hospital. Like a cemetery.

I had seen Carlos Gardel’s grave. Now I needed to gulp a fresh lemonade.

[Video is mine]