Pink Argentina

14/7/2010

The first time I saw Buenos Aires’ Casa Rosada, I was both awed by its architectural beauty and taken aback by its bright pink hue. Of course I knew it was pink beforehand—it’s called the Pink House. But somehow that didn’t prepare me for how pink it actually is. The footage I’d seen of the ever popular Evita Perón on its balcony in all her iconic feminine power didn’t brace me for my visceral color prejudice. Because I couldn’t help but think, “The President works here? It kind of seems a little gay.”

This was somewhat mitigated by the quite possibly apocryphal history of the pink paint told to me by countless porteños. “Cow blood,” they’d say. “The pink came from cow blood.”

In a country where vegetarianism is treasonous and the asado (barbeques) is sacred, this seemed reasonable. And as I couldn’t substantiate it one way or another, I decided to believe it; it only added to the increasingly nuanced vision I had of the country.

Everything seemed to be evolving, or at least changing. It was easier to find Tiesto playing than Carlos Gardel—but there would always be a Boca-River match, and there would always be steak.

And then last January President Cristina Kirchner suddenly married two seemingly disparate themes: pork and sex. I was confused.

"Pork consumption improves sexual activity,” she told a group of businesspeople. “Besides, some nicely grilled pork is much more gratifying than taking Viagra.”

Eat pork?—in a country with a per capita beef consumption of over 150 lbs a year?

“What’s next?” I thought. “Soon they’ll be tuning out la apertura and tuning in to the NFL.”

Shortly after I was told to check out this website: http://www.faarg.com.ar/

New meat? New sports? New music?

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

That’s a rough translation of what my cab driver told me as he caught an inebriated me looking at three Christina Aguilera look-a-likes on my way back to my apartment.

He quickly cleared it up for me: they were transvestites. Later I’d be accosted on several occasions on a busy 9 de Julio by much less attractive transvestites and think, “Maybe my initial impression about the Casa Rosada was right. Cow’s blood? No…”

And then I heard about Zona X—a gaucho bar outside the city where men’s men come to meet men. It sounded gayer than Brokeback Mountain.

And then there was the Nature Reserve where I used to run—my favorite part of gentrified Puerto Madero. The smells from the chorizo stands used to torture me en route to the entrance, and I was pretty much oblivious to all the men enjoying the company of other men. That is till I read a description in a tourist guide—I paraphrase: ‘A great place to escape the city in the city, take in nature, and meet gays.”

Somehow the neck pain I endured from constantly turning my head on the subte as beautiful woman after beautiful woman got on and got off had prevented me from acknowledging how relaxed and accepting the prevailing attitudes were, which is why I find the thousands protesting the upcoming Argentine Senate vote on gay marriage so hard to fathom.

The vitriol coming from the opposition wouldn’t be out of place in a fundamentalist Bible Belt church. Catholic universities are cancelling classes so students can protest. It’s being called “God’s war”, “The Devil’s Bill”, and signs are reading things like “Children deserve a mother and father.”

At first I thought it was just another cacerolada—more protesters paid to make noise with pots and pans. But any quick look at photos of the protesters will show you there’s some serious organization putting serious pressure on the 72 Senators in whose power it is to make Argentina the first country in Latin America to approve same-sex marriage.

Cristina Kirchner’s administration has had its problems—firing recalcitrant central bankers and dismissing accusations she and her husband have done exceedingly well financially while in power, but on this issue she, as her husband did before her, has taken a clear stand.

With such division, it’s hard to know which way this vote will go. But if what my admittedly limited observations showed me is accurate, it should be a watershed moment in both Argentine and Latin American history.