by Jerold Last
Juan complemented Suzanne on her understanding. “I was old enough in 1982 to see what was going on and to understand a lot of what I saw. We lived here in BA at the time. When Argentina and Presidente Galtieri surrendered to the British, the military also passed out Argentine flags to everybody here in the city. Every window flew a flag that week. You would have thought we won the Malvinas war rather than losing it. Half of the bars in town were renamed Cafe Exocet to celebrate the sinking of a British Navy destroyer by a French-made guided missile fired by the Argentine military. There was a lot of anti-British sentiment all over Argentina, but especially here in BA, during and after that war.”
The taxi driver pointed to several of the world famous buildings we passed including the Colon Theater, where opera and ballet shared the stage with classical music concerts. “The Government House on Balcarce built in 1580, popularly known as the Pink House, like our White House is the home of the president. The Congressional Palace houses the legislative branch of government and is indeed a palace built in the Greek-Roman style, with Corinthian columns and a white marble coating. Argentina used to be one of the wealthiest countries in the world on a per capita basis during the first half of the Twentieth Century. It’s easy to see where a good portion of this money went. Too bad it didn’t go into modernizing our industry and creating jobs for the people who need them!”
Suzanne asked Juan in a pensive tone, “Do you wonder whether all of the sense of being in Paris or Rome or somewhere in Europe here in BA is to make you forget you’re in South America? I wonder if most of those 19th and early 20th century immigrants who got rich had some sort of national inferiority complex because they felt like they were Europeans living in South America rather than Europe? If that were true, then all of the architectural ostentation here in the capital city might be here to compensate for something the leadership wanted to be and weren’t.”
Juan paused a little bit to think about his answer. “Either that or they were trying to show that they were better than any other country in South America. Either way, they spent a lot of money trying to impress anybody who visited BA.”
We passed Florida Street, a “peatonal” blocked to auto traffic to make it easy for pedestrians to shop. Juan had a predictable political commentary to share. “This is the Rodeo Drive of BA, but a lot larger than the Beverly Hills version. It’s completely typical of BA to have expensive shops for the tourists and the 10% of Argentinians who can afford to shop in these expensive designer stores, but we have poor people starving to death for which the government does little or nothing.”
We passed through the tourist’s BA. Our taxi drove us out to the Palermo neighborhood where many of the wealthy Argentines live. Juan explained to us Palermo contains large apartments, houses, the Hippodrome (a racetrack), a small forest, and a botanical garden. “This neighborhood also contains ‘Hollywood’, which is the center of the TV and movie industry in BA, and a large cemetery in which many of the wealthy and powerful families of BA finally reside. Eva and Juan Peron are buried here, as are most of the wealthy and influential Argentine leaders and merchants of the last two centuries.”
Juan continued his narrative as we drove through Palermo towards the Aeroparque. “You will see the port that makes BA famous in just a few moments as we get to the Rio de la Plata. Buenos Aires refers to the favorable winds that made BA a major port city, not to ‘good air’. The eternal traffic jam that continuously clogs the major avenues of BA, and the resultant air pollution that it generates, make the name ‘good air’ seem to be an ironic joke. Almost one-third of Argentina’s total population of about 36 million lives in the province of Buenos Aires, so the city gives a feeling of being crowded, especially downtown. BA prides itself on being the city of the tango, which is more a cultural phenomenon than just a dance. Tango music is close to being the Argentine counterpart of country-western music in the US, but sadder and more tragic. Late night dinners and clubs that celebrate deep into the early morning hours feature tango music prominently. A typical entertainer in one of these bars would sing tango songs and accompany himself on the guitar.”
We people-watched during our short visit to BA and observed that the population is pretty homogeneous. Juan told us that their ancestors mainly came from Italy or Spain. They think of themselves as Europeans who live in the Southern Hemisphere. The BA natives are called “portenos”, translated as “people from the port”, by their neighbors in Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay. When we got to Salta, we found out that porteno is not intended to be a complimentary term when used by people not from BA. Portenos have much the same reputation in the region as New Yorkers have in the USA. They are considered to be aggressive in their behaviors, arrogant and superior in their view of others, including from elsewhere in Argentina, and are not beloved by all. A local joke describes portenos as “People of Italian parentage who speak Spanish but think they are Germans.”
It was a short ride to the Aeroparque Jorge Newbery, where we would to catch our flight to Salta, from where we currently were in Palermo. The airport shares space near the port of BA with several parks and a railroad junction on the bank of the Rio de la Plata, the 65-mile wide river that forms Argentina’s border with Uruguay and gives the capital cities of both countries major ports with ready access to the Atlantic Ocean.
We arrived at the domestic airport a comfortable 1.5 hours before our scheduled departure at 12:25 PM. We’d both noticed the taxi following us on our circuitous route from Ezeiza to the Aeroparque several times, so we fully expected to see our fellow passengers from Los Angeles sharing yet another flight with us. They weren’t going to disappoint us.
Lunch would be served on the plane, so we sat at the gate and planned what to do when we arrived in Salta at about 3 PM. We’d take a taxi from the airport to the main police station, where we’d try to find someone to talk to who knew about the murder. After that, a decent meal and finding a place to stay and catch up on our lost night of sleep seemed enough to plan for what was left of our first day in Argentina.
To pass the time while we wailed at the gate, Suzanne asked me, “Is this the first time you’ve ever been in South America?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “I’ve been to South America several times, but this is my first visit to Argentina. It’s very different from the other countries in the northern half of the continent I’ve visited down here. What are your first impressions like so far?”
I thought about what we’d seen and heard since our arrival at the airport. “It’s totally different than Los Angeles, or anywhere else I’ve been in the U.S. The people look Hispanic, so that’s not different than Los Angeles or the Southwest in the U.S. But the huge avenues and the way buildings look are very different. Some of the government buildings could be in Washington, D.C. I guess, but not as many and not as big. It’s like D.C. on steroids.”
“Buenos Aires looks very different to me too, and it’s not just the buildings or the city plan,” Suzanne replied. “There are a lot more buses on the streets and a lot more people running around. As slow as things were in the neighborhoods, the people seemed downright frantic in the downtown government areas. The streets and buildings are incredibly dirty compared to good neighborhoods in the U.S.”
The plane left the airport late (of course; domestic flights always leave late in Argentina), but otherwise everything went smoothly for us. The takeoff took us north and west over the river, then on a westerly route across much of Argentina, then north to Salta. The objective seemed to be to stay in Argentine airspace, rather than finding the shortest and most direct straight line route, which would have had us flying over Paraguay.
“Can you see anything on the ground from this altitude?”
“It looks like a big green swamp down there now. The land is completely flat. I think it’s the pampas,” replied Suzanne, who was once again sitting by the window.
A couple of hours later we were flying through the high peaks of the Andes Mountains as we
approached Salta, in the Northwest of Argentina just south of the Bolivian border.
Chapter4.The Flight to Salta and Getting Settled There
The airport approach and landing were memorable. The city of Salta, the capital of the province of Salta, lies in a valley that has access to water from the rivers fed by melting snow on the Andes to the west. The valley is green and lush, and a major agricultural producer for the province.
We approached the airport from the south, flying through the valley, with mountains towering above both sides of the plane. The sensation of the mountains closing in on the airplane increased as the valley narrowed while we descended steeply towards the airport situated a couple of miles southeast of the city center. Salta city, at an elevation of about 1150 meters (about 3800 feet) above sea level, consists of many small towns glued together by growth, each with its own identity. It has a population of about 500,000, so it sprawls over a large area.
Suzanne had the window seat again. She stared out at the unfolding landscape in rapt fascination as the plane descended. “There’s a lot of agricultural activity with crops growing and plowed fields. It looks like the Central Valley in California, but it’s nowhere near as wide or long. There’s a river flowing through the valley here, but much less irrigated agriculture then I’m used to in California. There’s a city ahead I assume is Salta. It sprawls out a long way from its center,” she announced.
The airport was small by comparison with BA or LAX, but was newly remodeled and modern looking. Salta is definitely not a high priority destination for most of the folks who fly from Los Angeles to Miami, so two of my fellow passengers stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb when I recognized them as being our companions on all three of our flights.
I hadn’t spotted fellow traveler number two until he turned up on the flights to both Miami and BA. He was a pretty ordinary looking 40-ish, dressed casually, but wearing a dusky black cowboy hat, 6 feet, 180-190 pounds, and had dark hair and a scar on his face. I wouldn’t have noticed him at all except that out of long habit I looked for someone who might be keeping an eye on us. Fellow traveler number one was the same guy with light hair Suzanne had pointed out at the airport in Los Angeles, the dude who looked like one of the men she spotted following her over the last couple of weeks. It’s a small world, but probably not that small. Travelers one and two gave no indication of knowing one another, and had not sat together on any of our three flights together.
Our LanArgentina flight, which was usually late as we learned from other passengers while we waited for the plane in BA, arrived at Salta International Airport about an hour late. We were assured that this was a pretty good performance for the airline. We arrived in Salta tired and jet-lagged after 27 hours and four time zones traversed during the long trip, but eager to start finding out what we could about Robert Foster’s murder. It was only a twenty-minute taxi ride to our first destination, the main police station in the center of the city. The weather was similar to BA, sunny and bright, but it was warmer and drier. The Andes Mountains that surrounded the valley dominated the views to the east and west.
Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, Suzanne was once again glued to the window looking at the rural terrain and urbanized city we passed through. “There’s an enormous difference between Salta and BA, isn’t there?” she asked rhetorically. “My first impression of Salta is being out in the middle of a rural agricultural area. Salta looks a lot older than BA and a lot less prosperous. Some of the buildings remind me of Mexico.”
“The people here look different too,” I replied. “But I have to admit that my major impression is that I’m glad to be done with flying for a while. We spent too much time in planes and airports the last two days, and I’m looking forward to getting some exercise, good food, and sleep here.”
Salta is laid out like all of the older cities in South America, using the Spanish Colonial model of city planning. At the center of the city is a town square containing, in decreasing order of their importance, the main church, La Iglesia Catedral de Salta, the seat of government and its supporting bureaucracy (the Cabildo), and a small park or plaza, La Plaza 9 de Julio, with several statues of revolutionary leaders. In Salta the square also contains two hotels, several restaurants catering to tourists, and commercial buildings with apartments above them. The older buildings have thick adobe brick walls and arched walkways.
The Central Salta police station was in the old Cabildo building on the square, directly across from the church. The Cabildo is a large three-story rectangle, enclosing a large open central courtyard. The front of the building, facing the Plaza, has big stone columns and a formal look to it. It could have been a big city library from the outside. About a tenth of the inside was extensively remodeled into a usable police station with very, very high ceilings and plaster-covered adobe walls.
We entered with Suzanne and her reasonably fluent Spanish taking the lead to get us to Teniente (Lieutenant) Gonzalez, the detective in charge of the investigation into her father’s murder. Our luggage fit easily behind the Lieutenant’s desk. Lieutenant Gonzalez was fat, in his forties, had a Pancho Villa mustache, and had cultivated a serious, almost gloomy, affect. We introduced ourselves and explained we were in Salta mainly for a vacation and tourism, but that we also hoped to learn more about how Suzanne’s father had died while we were here. At this point the conversation mercifully switched to English with the lieutenant’s occasional phrase in Spanish, invariably preceded by a “como se dice?” to indicate the desire, but not the ability, to say it in English.
Suzanne asked for an update on the investigation and for details about the killing. It took the better part of 15 minutes to learn there was nothing new, followed by anther 20 minutes of what they did know about the murder. Mostly it was facts about time, place, and how it was done.
The Lieutenant spoke slowly and solemnly as he told us, “Your father died from being beaten to death, with signs he had also been robbed of money and jewelry. The place of death was a street in a seedy rundown commercial area of Salta, a strange place for him to have been at 10 PM, the estimated time of death. However, there were a few restaurants in the area and the police assume he chose to walk to one of them for a dinner he never had a chance to eat.”
Given that dinner is normally eaten in Argentina from 9 PM to midnight, or later, this seemed to be a reasonable reconstruction of events in the official police version.
Strangely enough, at least by American police standards, Lieutenant Gonzalez had no objections to sharing whatever was in the file with us, nor did he object to our looking into the matter on our own. He carefully put an X on the city map to show us where the body had been found, and another X for the Hotel Regidor, where Suzanne’s father had been staying. The Lieutenant suggested that we might also want to stay at the Regidor Hotel.
He told us in a serious tone, “The Regidor Hotel has a perfect location for tourism. It is only a short walk from my office to the hotel. I think the hotel staff will be much more likely to cooperate with you if you are guests rather than strangers coming in off the street.”
He looked directly at Suzanne as he added, “The Salta Police Force understands and sympathizes with your loss. You will have full cooperation from the police while you are here in Salta. In return, I expect if you find anything out I should know, you will come back here to share the information with me.”
We shook hands and left the station to visit the Hotel Regidor, conveniently located about a hundred meters to our right on the southwest corner of the square.
Chapter5.Arrival day in Salta, we find a hotel and dinner
The Regidor was an older hotel, constructed in the Spanish Colonial style, geared to businessmen and others looking for a no-frills and relatively inexpensive place to stay, with a perfect location in the heart of Salta. The hotel was in a wonderful old heavy beamed building that had been beautifully renovated and expanded to include four floors of guest rooms above the ground floor. It had about 40 rooms on its fou
r floors, and a small rickety elevator to get to the rooms. A small restaurant on the corner of the square, with a back door opening into the hotel, completed the frills.
The clerk at the desk, an attractive middle-aged woman in a black skirt and gray sweater, spoke English and was pleasant and helpful. “Please leave your passports so I can handle all of the necessary paperwork to check you in,” she told us. “You can also leave your suitcases here at the desk. They will be perfectly safe in our care. You can be sure they will be in your room when you are ready to go upstairs. Your key and passports will be ready to pick up here at the desk in a few minutes.”
We left our suitcases, which had uneventfully traveled this far with us, in her care and asked whether we could talk to the manager.
She called the manager, who took us into the restaurant to talk over coffee. He was able to converse in English, which helped a lot. My high school Spanish was fine for restaurants and checking into hotels, but a real conversation was well beyond my skill level. I could understand a lot of what I heard, but couldn’t put together a complete sentence unless I had a minute or two to think about it. Suzanne introduced us, and explained why we were in Salta, both as tourists on vacation and to learn more about what happened to her father.
