Adventures in Mataderos

There are definitely downsides to traveling alone: Meals are less fun, there's rarely anyone with whom you can share jokes, and if you get lost on the way somewhere, it's (a) probably your own fault and (b) up to you to get unlost. But one of the great advantages is flexibility: You get to pick your own itinerary. And so it came to pass that on my first evening in Buenos Aires, I realized that I didn't have anyone to meet for dinner and was completely free to wend my way to one of the western suburbs, Mataderos.

Mataderos, previously known as Nueva Chicago, was originally the major slaughterhouse district of the city. It had something of a seedy reputation, as you might expect from an area called "Butchersville" (my rough translation), and it remains one of the less fashionable parts of town, nearly an hour from trendy areas like Palermo. But it's now home to a museum of the gaucho and, on the weekends, a fair dedicated to rural life. In the non-summer months, there are horsemanship competitions and all sorts of gaucho displays, but even in the summer there's a scaled-down fair that the books said might be worth a trip. I hied me to a taxi, having decided that negotiating the bus system would be too much of a pain, and headed west.

The feria more than lived up to my expectations. I strolled past a tiny park where a movie was being projected on a concrete wall, negotiated my way past the outlying stalls of pressed flowers and macramed leather, and found myself stuck in an unmoving crowd. I had forgotten that it was Carnaval, and a murga, the local equivalent of a krewe or mummer's team, was boogieing frantically down the street. The dancers were all wearing elaborate polyester outfits, despite the heat and humidity: fuzzy hats dripping fringe and sequins, white gloves, white pants, and red tail coats covered with more fringe, glitter, and shine. Their progress was slow, but they made up for it by dancing like capoieristas who've just learned to frug. The crowd whooped and cheered and made way by inches, and after about 20 minutes, they worked their way free and were able to decommission their drummer, shed some layers, and relax. The crowd dispersed toward the main stage, where a troupe of dancers ranging age from 8 to at least 60 began to form up for their set, the guys stomping manfully and the women flaring their huge skirts as they spun.

The rest of the feria was more relaxed, but a good time was certainly being had. Rather than tango, which is ubiquitous downtown, there were folk dances from various parts of the country, and after a few minutes the crowd had spread out to allow pockets of audience members to dance as well; I don't know what the dances were, but they involved a great fluttering of kerchiefs and seemed to be familiar to everyone. After wandering around the stalls to peer at knives and leatherwork and getting a mate gourd and bombilla for my father, I followed my nose to one of the barbecue businesses. The owners had spread a bed of coals in the gutter and propped a grill frame over it; I got a sausage sandwich and a Pepsi for about two bucks, found a free seat at a communal table, and sat down to rest my feet and dig in. Just as I was finishing up and thinking of strolling over to the candy stalls (fresh fruit dipped in sugar syrup, rolled in popcorn, and skewered like kebabs), two gauchos on horseback, rawhide brush shields sticking out on either side of their saddles like huge stiff wings, made their way through the crowd just in front of my seat to display their horses' dancing skills. They were followed by several gauchitos, little kids in full costume and jingling as they walked.

Of all the things I did in Buenos Aires, visiting Mataderos was the highlight: there was a great sense of family fun, of a neighborhood, that was missing in the few other generally touristy places I got to see. I wish I had been there at a time when the horsemanship skillz were on full display--clearly, there's reason to go back.