Recoleta cemetery

A couple of weeks ago, we went with our housemate Jorge to the Recoleta cemetery, an exclusive final resting place for some of Argentina's wealthiest families; the cemetery holds generals, businessmen, presidents, writers, Nobel Prize winners, and most famously, Evita. It was first created in 1822 but only gained its present, ornate aspect in 1881.


Marty and Jorge

It's a strange place -- like a tiny city, with narrow streets and small decorative houses for each family. It's also noticeably, remarkably, blessedly quiet. Buenos Aires is a loud city, and there are big streets right outside the cemetery, but it's surrounded by a high brick wall (which reminded us somewhat incongruously of the wall around Chiang Mai), which must mute the noise. The sunny central plaza was relatively full of people, walking and chatting, but the small labyrinthine paths branching out from the center were silent.


The narrow lanes of the necropolis



Many of the tombs are in considerable disrepair (as not all the families have survived, or at least have remained rich). It seemed sad, but also strange to feel sad about what is largely a display of ostentatious wealth.

In some places, this disrepair is very picturesque.



In others, it's just ugly; windows are broken, and there are a few places you could actually reach in and touch a casket, a grotesque thought. My Spanish teacher said that brass is quite valuable and so many plaques and brass or bronze objects have been stolen.


Most of the mausoleums had visible coffins and stairs leading down to lower levels; this one was in unusually good repair


The imagery on this looks quite Mexican

The outside walls of the tombs bear plaques for particular members of the family; an especially popular (or powerful, or rich) person will have several plaques in their name put up by different groups of people.


I wondered if the employees of Señor Lavarello really loved him so much


The Duarte tomb -- Eva Perón's carefully embalmed body lies here after many strange travels, including being hidden here and in Europe, as well as at apparently resting for some time on Perón's dining room table.


My shirt fit right in with the iconography


The comfortable cemetery cats; one particularly friendly fellow had about 24 toes


Not sure why anyone would want a knocker, but it's a handsome lion



Marty had this to add, courtesy of the Smiths:

A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetery gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
...
While Wilde is on mine

So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people all those lives
Where are they now?
With the loves and hates
And passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived and then they died
Seems so unfair
And I want to cry
...

A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're happy
And I meet you at the cemetery gates
Oh Keats and Yeats are on your side

A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're wanted
And I meet you at the cemetery gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
But you lose because Wilde is on mine