THE COST OF SACRILEGE

20 PESOS

The North American traveller visiting this Buenos Aires landmark will promptly realize that the Recoleta Cemetery is not so much a cemetery in the sense that we understand the word in our own Protestant Republic, but rather necropolis built according to the baroque tastes typical of the Catholic oligarchies of the south. Even more valuable than the real estate in Buenos Aires' Recoleta barrio - where the gente decente live in conformity with Baron Haussmann's  ideals of urban planning - is the right to be buried alongside the father's of the nation and their legion ne'erdowell offspring.  The names on the mausoleums read like the index of streets at the back of a city map. Mitre, Lavalle, Sarmiento and Pueyrredón all lie in Recoleta; their tombs maintained at public expense and largely ignored by the tourists who want to see Evita.  

The government of Argentina, although at times prone to fruitless expenses, cannot afford to maintain all of the tombs in Recoleta, and the vast majority are the responsibility of the surviving family. It is the unfortunate tendency of oligarchies, however, to shrink with the passage of time. As more of the nation's great families disappear, their mausoleums in Recoleta fall into utter disrepair. The directors of the cemetery, in a fine display of Christian charity, take it upon themselves to close the doors that fall open with padlocks or zip ties, but little more. It is a wonder that the place doesn't completely reek of putrefaction (more on this later), but this unstoppable decay somehow suits the aesthetic of Recoleta. It reflects the encroachment of bourgeois pragmatism into traditional feudal superstition (or perhaps the manifestation of a latent infection - Buenos Aires having been a smugglers port long before it became a viceregal capital).

But what of the families whose resources remain such that they are able to care for the final (or at least, current) resting place of their antecedents? The task falls to a special group of men, who ensure that the cobwebs are brushed out of the corners, the handles of the coffins stay shiny, the priceless Byzantine mosaics are intact, the stray cats don't shit all over the place, and the hundreds of other jobs that maintain the crypt as a symbol of the family's eternal prestige get done. Much as so many of the cemetery's residents were no doubt used to a complete complement of domestic servants in life, they are looked after in death for however long the family fortune lasts.  The families do not tend to pay these workers well, but somehow, I do not think that many visitors to Recoleta are offered the same special tour that it was my pleasure to enjoy today. 

I was wandering the cemetery today, you see, when I saw a very singular looking man emerge from one of the tombs. I was quite surprised to see someone coming out of a crypt, especially, to be perfectly frank, someone with such an indian aspect about him that I didn't imagine very many relatives were buried in Recoleta. He caught me looking at him, and made a face that suggested a certain displeasure at the fact. I decided to play dumb, and I asked him what was down there (obviously, the only answer is "a bunch of dead people").  He motioned over to a worker in blue coveralls, and then asked me if I wanted to find out for myself. I took another look at the man. He had gold jewelry, big shades, American jeans, and a big mustache. I had met the godfather of the crypt-keepers. He was very clearly relishing my hesitation in answering.

He took me aside - 

"Make sure you give a nice tip so this guy can get a sandwich. Nobody's responsible for what happens to you when you're down there."

Now, I know certain of my relatives have read this blog and charged me with a certain naïveté, that perhaps I've gotten myself into things better left alone. To them I say this: accepting this offer might have been the closest I'd ever get to meeting Nicolás Francomano, and I was not about to let the opportunity pass me by. 

The man in the blue overalls was a friendly enough sort, considering he spends most of his time with dead people and stray cats. He told me to follow him, because he wanted to show me a nice one. We walked down the alleys of the cemetery until we came to a white marble mausoleum. He unlocked the doors and motioned for me to follow him down into the first level of the crypt. There were sixteen coffins in all, in niches in the walls. 

Each coffin is lined with steel, my guide explained, with two valves that prevent the accumulation of gasses from causing an explosion. These valves have some sort of chemical filter, that neutralizes the odor of decomposition and by the time they no longer function, the body doesn't really smell that bad anyway. He also told me that as more and more members of the family die, they make room in the crypt by taking out some of the older ones and cremating them, or putting the bones in an ossuary. Thank god that he didn't take me to see the ossuary, located underneath the floor of the lowest level of the crypt. 

As my guide took me down into the bottom level, we had to light a candle to see. The bottom of the crypt is practically identical to the upper, but creepier because of the darkness. I hesitated on the last few steps down into the crypt. 

"Don't be a coward. They're not going to bite." 

He showed me a picture of Jesus at the back of the tomb, and explained to me that recently the painting had needed restoration. The family had had it flown to England to have the work done, and only recently returned it to it's place in the dark where only he would see it once a week. I felt sorry for the painter, but, fortunately, he's probably dead too. I asked him how often people from the family came to visit, and the answer was hardly ever.  Looking around at the marble floors and the paintings on the walls, it wasn't that hard to imagine that their house looks fairly similar, anyway. 

I was somewhat relieved when he offered to take me up to the chapel. Fascinating as the crypt may have been, I was ready to see sunshine. It was a wonderful feeling walking back up and out of the tomb, considering that a lot of people don't get to come back out once they go in. Since the place was designed for people of average height 200 years ago, the ceilings are a little low. My guide warned me not to bump my head and fall, because they'd put him in prison if I did. Naturally, I obliged his request. 

He showed me the chapel,  which was lovely, but which doesn't really stick in my memory, probably because it wasn't full of the deafening silence of hundreds of dead bodies slowly moldering for all eternity. 

I slipped the guy a 20 peso note, and high-tailed it back into the world of the living as fast as I could. I can go back and see Evita some other time. 

WHO IS GAUCHITO GIL?

Your correspondent at a shrine to the popular saint known as Gauchito Gil

The altars to the folk hero and popular saint known as Gauchito Gil are hard to miss. The faithful paint them bright red, fly red flags, leave red wine, marlboros and roses. A shrine to Gil on the Pampa is a bright spot on the immense open plain. But who is Gauchito Gil? How did a simple Gaucho come to be venerated as a saint across the entire country? 

Gauchito Gil is, of course, first and foremost a gaucho. It is not difficult for me to imagine a doctoral thesis gathering dust in the library of the University of Buenos Aires, "Gauchito Gil as Homo Faber: Proletarian Ideology in Argentine Popular Religion." He was a simple countryman from the province of Corrientes, though, and most likely never got around to reading Arendt or Frisch. He most likely would have received his education from the fiery songs of the traveling payador (traditional Gaucho minstrel). Given this upbringing in the folklore of love, loss, betrayal and bloodshed, it seems appropriate that the story of Gauchito Gil's life begins with a star crossed love between the humble Gaucho and a beautiful widow. 

The widow's brothers, little pleased with the rumors circulating in the small town of Pay Ubre regarding late night serenades and other such latin follies, decided that Gauchito Gil had become an unacceptable nuisance. The brothers gathered up the decent citizens of the town and put Gauchito Gil to the chase. He escaped by the skin of his teeth, disguising himself in the rawhide of a young calf and roaming out of town after dark. 

Gauchito Gil serves with distinction (bottom right)

Unable to return to his natal lands, he decided to join the Army of the republic and fight in the wars against the Paraguayans. Gauchos take naturally to warfare, given their hearty constitutions and penchant for violence, and Gil served with distinction in a Gaucho army. At the battle of Tuyutí,  Gil's battalion was ambushed by a group of elite Paraguayan indian scouts. As the other soldiers in of the unit were on the point of turning and running in the face of Paraguayan savagery, Gauchito Gil wiped the blood from the blade of his dagger and used it to signal General Mitre that the flank was about to crumble. He then animated the retreating soldiers to stand and fight until the reinforcements arrived. Thirteen thousand Paraguayans died at Tuyutí.

Needless to say, Gauchito Gil returned to the village in triumph, the opinion of the townsfolk regarding him being considerably swayed by the row of medals across his chest. He was able to resume his affair with the lovely widow, but their affair was cut short again by the scheming of the brothers. In spite of Gauchito Gil's exemplary conduct on the field of battle, and the inestimable service he had rendered to the fatherland, the brothers could not bear the sight of the peasant with their widowed sister. They conspired to have Gil drafted into service again, this time in the Federalist Army of the future dictator Rosas. 

Note the red sash - the color of the federalists would become part of the symbolism of Gauchito Gil

Gauchito Gil was no stranger to bloodshed after his service in the Paraguayan War, but the violence of the civil war was simply too much for him. After months of constant bloody skirmishes, Gauchito Gil had had enough. He had reached the breaking point, and when pushed to fight again he just snapped. Versions of the story differ, but all agree that Gauchito Gil stripped all his clothes, killed his horse and anointed himself in the blood, covering himself from head to foot. "Here is your federalist uniform!" he is reported to have screamed before running off onto the Pampa. 

No one knows what happened to Gauchito Gil during the months that he was pursued across the countryside. When they found him the horse's blood had dried onto his skin. He had tamed a wild stallion and rode him without saddle or tack. The Federalistas chased him into the desert until he collapsed from the exhaustion of riding naked without food or drink under the hot sun of the blazing Chaco. As they hanged him by his ankles from the branches of the only tree around for miles, Gil began to speak to one of his tormentors.

"You do not know, but your only son is very sick. If you bring me to him, I will heal him."

"Your fate is to die a  traitor's death here, Gil," the Federalista replied.

"Very well, but when I am dead, pray to me that the boy might live."

They left him there to die, but that Federalista did discover his child to be sick. He prayed as Gauchito Gil had instructed, and surely enough the boy was healed. The body of Gauchito Gil was cut down and properly entombed, and the story of his miracle spread across the country. Today, the devoted travel from shrine to shrine, carrying some red object as a symbol of their promises to god.