On the corner of Plaza and Olzabal in Buenos Aires there is a park hedged on two sides by the exposed brickwork of the adjoining buildings. It’s midday, overcast, a light breeze is shaking the park’s only tree. Otherwise nothing, no one. But if you look more closely you are not alone. To the right of the tree, a man is standing on a crate, running a pole up and down a wall. You can barely make him out against the grey-brown edifice. He is not tall, even when standing on his tip-toes. His clothes and face are slathered in paint. A giant white circle is taking shape two stories above him – a head, a planet, the pap of a flower? It is difficult to say. This diminutive, almost slight young person is Blu, one of the most innovative artists working on the streets today.

Soon his Italian friends join him. First Ivan and Lorenzo who are recording the experience on a video camera for the Italian film production company Mercurio. They hope to refine almost 80 hours of footage into a documentary film about a trip devoted to Blu’s painting that has taken two months and spanned Central and South America: Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and now Argentina. “We’ve got 80 hours of little kids playing football and dogs fighting,” jokes Ivan. And then there is Sibe, a gamine, a girl with short black hair, an infectious smile; she is often reading a book in the grass while her boyfriend Blu paints.

She has watched Blu’s early graffiti in his hometown of Bologna, Italy develop into the immense mythical figures that now distinguish his work. “We’ve come to find inspiration in the streets of Latin America,” Lorenzo tells me.

Blu paints from sun up until sun down. There is an almost primordial rhythm to his work. He is finishing his piece at the park on Olzabal as dusk settles. The white circle, the head, is now attached to a body stooping towards the playground, its feet brushing the tree branches. We can only look up at Blu who is perched on his ladder, thinking. Marc Schiller, the founder of a prominent website devoted to urban art called woostercollective.com, tells me that Blu is ‘a spiritual leader in the street art movement…someone who instinctively understands his surroundings’. A boy kicks a soccer ball towards the tree and runs right into Blu and the painting. “What is it?” he asks, slightly delighted. “What do you think?” says Blu.

All of Blu’s pieces inspire shock. As if the wall suddenly crept up on the person instead of the other way around. This is their peculiar power – to reinvigorate the space, to give each wall a life. In the enormous piece on Ozabal the figure kneels uncomfortably. This is a theme in Blu’s work, which, until now, appeared on walls mainly in European cities. Blu paints men, giants contorted into awkward poses, twisted so far in one direction that they’ve split apart. These bodies are almost formless – what seems to matter is not the figure but this moment of breakage when all the demons come spilling out. In one picture, on a wall in Zaragoza, Spain, a corpse-white man unravels his intestines into the shape of heart. In another, in Genoa, a giant man has peeled off his face to reveal a hollow grooved interior out of which smaller men struggle to climb. Rib cages become prison bars. Eyes become headlights. For Blu the human body is a kind of malfunctioning machine. It excretes and regurgitates and defecates. It breaks down—it is prone to decay. This makes his work, with its tendency towards the grotesque, immediately recognisable. Blu paints humans who have lost control of their own bodies.

The notion that humans are autonomous or somehow self-contained is exactly the illusion street art seeks to shatter. Painting becomes a communal activity. Women carrying groceries stop to ask questions. Games of football start. Local artists from Doma TV stop by to swap ideas. The police show up. Blu relishes these interruptions. He says they are the reason he makes art in the street.

A few days later I start to understand what he means. Blu is creating one of his most striking paintings at a vacant lot on Holmberg in the neighbourhood of Belgrano. It is also one of his largest – stretching the entire length of the building, almost half a city block. In the image a giant man, lying on his back, has parts of his body cut away, exposing a kind of enormous indoor city. The whole neighbourhood is suddenly different. The dogs are barking. A woman strides onto the patch of grass where Blu is working. “What is this?” she asks, almost frantically. “Is it a factory?” “I’m just the artist,” Blu says with an impish little grin. The picture draws every conceivable type. A group of construction workers are standing on the corner. They’re smiling with their arms folded. “I don’t know much about art,” one of them says, “but I like it a lot.” An elderly nun pats my head. A man with wild white hair yells something from a moving car. Ronald Kennedy, a retired architect, is using the occasion to lecture his nephew about the nature of art. “It looks like a train station. The little men inside are the big one’s friends,” says the 11-year-old. “It’s very good,” he pauses emphatically, “the picture has movement.” The adults burst out laughing.

To paint on a wall in Latin America is never an innocent act. The wall is a place for political slogans. It is the surface against which partisans are shot. Even Blu’s work, which is not obviously political, draws strangers together. “This type of thing would never have been possible under the dictatorship,” explains Ronald. The danger involved in painting walls underscores the fact that Blu is not a normal artist. Blu is an artist on the run. Running between the rooftops, above our heads. He is stretching out on a ladder to reach a high wall or crouching on an electrical crate to reach a low wall. He does not ask permission. He simply paints. “To do something without asking permission…it’s a way of expressing yourself,” he tells me. In Europe it is very difficult to paint. Lorenzo recounts a story about police vans in Germany. In the countries they’ve visited in Latin America the difference between legal and illegal art is less clear. “In Guatemala and Mexico City we were more concerned about tagging over gang graffiti than with the police.” In the end the streets welcomed them; the murals they made with local artists and street kids in places like San Jose, Costa Rica attest to the lasting impact of their trip.

When they arrived in Buenos Aires, the last stop on their voyage, Blu noticed the walls first. This is how he experiences a new city. He skips the great monuments and museums, the wide pedestrian thoroughfares; he looks instead for the dingy remainders, the points at which the city falls apart. “How are the walls in Buenos Aires different from those in other cities you’ve visited?” Each city, he says, has completely different walls. “In Managua, the capital of Nicaragua, the walls are very low because an earthquake razed the city in 1972. But street art adapts to these circumstances. Nicaragua has a ton of artists working in the street.” In Guatemala – a richer country – it is too dangerous. Walls are not used for painting. “And Buenos Aires itself?” Blu gestures up at his painting on Holmberg. “Take this wall,” he says. “I am attracted to it because it is complex, it has a history. A building was destroyed to create this wall.” He draws my attention to an old porthole window that is now the giant reclining man’s eye. “This window is ancient, they aren’t made anymore. This was the starting point for the piece.” “So your work is a kind of collaboration with the pre-existing structure?” “Yes and no. Because in a sense each wall already tells the whole story, it’s all there, I only happen upon it.” Each time he finds a wall it is an accident, a completely fortuitous event. In Europe things are kept tidy for the tourists. But in Buenos Aires these walls that bear their scars on the surface are still waiting to be discovered.

When Blu finds his wall he improvises. There are no plans. Yet as his painting becomes more intricate, as the arms and legs and head take shape, it begins to look as if it had always been there. It is too gigantic for this stooping garrulous man to have painted. At most he’s colouring in. He could be the man hired to paint over the graffiti.

The picture resurfaces the wall, the wall resurfaces. Porteños walk past their block on Holmberg as if for the first time.

In a quiet moment, sipping a beer, Lorenzo, Sibe and Ivan stop to consider whether the giant man on Holmberg is done. Blu is there too. He is serene, very quiet. He is saving himself for the paint, the paint which covers his whole body. He not only understands these walls. He wants us to change the way we inhabit them. In this sense his art inherits its aspirations from the modernist avant-gardes. It seizes on their notion that art might alter and reorder everyday life in the city for the better. Today you need a ticket to see the Surrealists. But Blu’s work will never get lost in the museum. His art shares the same fate as the wall — it will live and die on the street.

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Boca Juniors football club from Buenos Aires are renowned for having some of the most passionate supporters in the world. Every other Sunday during the season, the concrete stands of Boca’s La Bombanera stadium reverberate in a riot of noise and colour.

Boca Coffins

However the passion of their fans has transcended the stadium, and some are taking their affection to the grave in one final act of support. In a joint venture between the club, a local funeral parlour and cemetery, supporters can be buried in coffins decorated in Boca’s blue and yellow colours in a specially designated Boca plot at Parque Iraola cemetery.

As a River Plate fan, I personally wouldn’t be seen dead in a Boca coffin, but I visited funeral director, Dario D’Auría at his San Justo funeral parlour to find out more about the scheme.

He explained that it started in March 2006, after the club granted permission for their crest and club colours to be used on the coffins in exchange for a commission on each funeral sold. The coffins are sold as part of a package which includes interment in the Boca Juniors section of Parque Iraola cemetery. Prices vary between US$550 and US$800 depending on the style of coffin, which range from plain blue to more elaborate ones in yellow and blue with the club crest.

Photo By: Mark Orton

Dario says that, on average, two Boca funeral packages a month are sold. I asked him what sort of people were buying them, he said: “Two types, firstly are the families of the recently departed, who take comfort in seeing their loved ones buried in the colours they were so passionate about; and then those fans who want to plan the funeral that they want, emphasising their support for Boca.”

When I asked him if he envisaged selling coffins in other clubs’ colours, Dario gave a wry smile and said: “No, I come from three generations of Boca fans, it would be very difficult.”

Boca Cemetery

Parque Iraola cemetery, 33km south of Buenos Aires, is the only one in the world to have a section dedicated to fans of one club. Sector Boca Juniors is a green haven of tranquillity, a far cry from the tumultuous Bombanera, tastefully bordered with flowerbeds in yellow copetes and blue salvias.

Commercial Manager, María Cristina Diaz told me that there are 3,000 plots available to supporters in Sector Boca Juniors, in an area measuring one hectare. Each one costing between $3,000 and $12,000 depending on their place in the cemetery, places nearest the players’ section being most sought after.

The Sector Boca Juniors opened on 7th September 2006, six months after Boca president, Mauricio Macri, gave the go ahead for the project. María says that most of the plots sold have been to supporters wanting to reserve their place for the future.

In addition to the fans’ section, a further 300 plots have been set aside for players and club officials, who will be buried free of charge. The first players to be buried there were Juan Estrada, who played in goal for Boca between 1938 and 1943, and Julio Musimessi, another goalkeeper who served the club from 1952 to 1959. They were both interred in a special ceremony at the sector’s opening.

Photo By: Mark Orton

Also visiting the cemetery was former Boca legend, Alfredo Graciani, who was arranging his own plot in the section. A veteran of 250 games for Boca Juniors, he also had successful spells playing in Switzerland with Lugano and the US with Miami. However, he said: “I enjoyed my career most at Boca, because of the passion of the fans and the incredible atmosphere in the stadium.”

Maradona Statue

As well as taking their support into the afterlife, Boca fans have also sought to immortalise one of their heroes, Diego Maradona. Four of them from Mar del Plata, Julián Chavero, Leandro Quintanilla, Gastón Amato and Lionel Díaz, commissioned a statue of the Boca icon to be built by Elizabeth Eichhorn. They collected $9,000 from supporters all over the world to pay for it. The monument, built of cement covered with bronze which stands 3m tall and weighs 300kg, depicts Maradona hand on heart before his greatest moment: leading Argentina to World Cup glory in 1986.

The statue was inaugurated as the latest exhibit in the Boca Juniors museum on 26th November 2006, and was unveiled by the great man himself. Maradona said: “As it is my first statue, it will always be the best.” He added: “I’m shocked and happy because now my children can see a symbol of what their father did.”

In his first spell at the club in 1981 he led Boca Juniors to a first Argentine championship in five years. He scored 28 goals in 36 games for the club he supported as a boy, before moving to Spanish giants Barcelona for a world record US$8.2m fee in 1982. Maradona has been revered by Boca fans ever since and 50,000 turned up to his farewell match at La Bombanera in November 2001.

The British have long been described as a nation of dog lovers. I am very proud to consider myself amongst that number. Man’s best friend has long been a source of (plutonic) friendship to me whenever our more traditional companions have had a headache. Nonetheless, upon my arrival in Buenos Aires I had to wonder if my native land’s title as canines’ truest amigos hadn’t been usurped by the epidemic ownership exhibited by our Latin cousins.

The streets of Argentina’s capital are filled with the barks, whines, yelps and smells of dogs. With a healthy proportion of the city’s residents occupying apartment buildings, the logistics of keeping large breeds content and healthy are sometimes problematic.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

It is for this reason that the sight of professional dog-walkers (paseaperros) is common on the roads and avenues of the metropolis. Since my arrival in the city I have long wondered how these individuals manage to keep such a multitude – often over 20 at a time – happy and placid when I have trouble with just one mild-mannered German Shepherd at home.

So when I was presented with the opportunity to shadow one of these canine-Jedis for a week I rolled over and begged at the chance.

Learning the Leashes

Waiting for Fabricio at a quite corner of Belgrano on a chilly Monday morning I was still unsure what to expect. I was also being followed by a US documentary team from Global Transmission Media just praying for some humiliating footage of a hapless gringo making a fool of himself.

Suddenly the silence was broken by what was going to soon become the familiar sound of rowdy pets as my mentor for the next week arrived. Fabricio, 30, appears with fleece, beanie and sunglasses – not to mention 22 hounds securely attached to a modified climbing harness around his waist.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

I step forward into the mealy to shake his hand and am greeted with my first lesson of professional dog-walking – watch where you tread. Buenos Aires is notorious for the ubiquitous deposits of foul-smelling excrement which any visitor could hardly have missed.

Whilst scraping my sole against the curb and pondering how remarkably accurate my exclamation of disgust had been, I see my tutor has already scampered at quite a rate across the road.

Here Fabricio explains to me lesson two – keep the dogs moving. “As long as they are in their correct positions in the group and are moving forward that’s half the battle,” he tells me. “When you stop and they get a chance to misbehave you can get into trouble.”

The dogs are all of reasonably large breeds. Labradors, Golden Retrievers and sheepdogs abound as well as one large Rottweiler. Bonzo, Fabricio explains is the alpha-male of the group. “In every group there tends to be boss which maintains order amongst the pack. This group has not been together for very long so there are sometimes problems, but I think Bonzo must be their leader.”

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

My first job arrives as I am handed my first charge. The undoubted runt of the litter, a diminutive speckled Terrier called Lennon. The film crew is delighted with the sight of Fabricio leading 21 dogs along the street followed by a 6ft3 Brit with a single pup so small that he would scarcely have made a gratifying canapé.

My new responsibility is short-lived, however, when it emerged that we only had a couple of blocks to go before Lennon was safely returned home.

With the Liverpudlian crooner safely enjoying a well-deserved snooze – Fabricio informs me that the dogs normally sleep for about five hours after their daily dalliance in the sun – we continue on our way

I take the opportunity to quiz Fabricio further about his job.

“The day starts at 7.20am when I begin to pick up all the dogs,” he tells me. “Then by 10am most of the dogs are on board and we walk for around an hour. Then we drop the dogs off in the same order.”

This daily routine involves a little over five hours work with the dogs receiving exactly three hours walking each. The route never changes a great deal and this allows the owners to know exactly what time to expect their pooches collected and returned.

“What if the owners are not around to answer the door?” I enquire, almost getting tangled up in a veritable maypole as I do. Fabricio pulls an immense bunch of keys from a pouch at the small of his back. “I have keys for most of the owner’s houses,” he explains. “If not I’ll take the dog back to my place and leave him there until I can make contact.”

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

“It’s not a problem now as I have my own place,” he continues. “Before, when I lived with my father, it could be a problem as he didn’t really like dogs. I had to wait in the street until the owner returned, even if it was raining!”

Here the level of trust involved becomes apparent. Dog-walkers in the city are a part of life, respected and depended-upon members of the community who take their job seriously and have greater responsibility than I first imagined.

“I have never taken a day off sick in nine years,” Fabricio tells me with pride. “I took two days off after my girlfriend died four years ago and that’s it. When my father died there was a public holiday the next day, but the day after that I was back working.”

Fabricio hands me another dog that was due to be delivered. Some of the smaller or older dogs don’t receive quite as much exercise as the rest.

After the remaining pooches were returned to their rightful owners I left Fabricio for the subte ride home. Although I was absolutely exhausted I had enjoyed the 15km hike. Most of all I was looking forward to the next day and the prospect of gaining control of the whole troop.

Entering the Fray

The next day the dogs seemed a little less chirpy than the previous. “After the weekend they are always energetic after a couple of days rest,” Fabricio explains. “Then they settle down a little.”

“Have you ever been bitten by the dogs?” I inquire with an obvious agenda. Fabricio lifts up his shirt and reveals a number of small scars.

“Very occasionally you can get bitten, yes,” he tells me. “The main problem is if the owner treats them in the right way. There are no dangerous breeds of dogs simply those not trained correctly. Any dog can be dangerous if not handled well.”

Reassured by this it is not long before I get a chance to step into the horde and experience the job firsthand. With the belt securely fastened I set about trying to get the 16 dogs to which I have been tethered to move in unison whilst not trip over leashes, animals or feces.

The constant tugging and pulling takes its toll on my lower back and thighs but after a while the pack seems to be moving in an orderly and civilised fashion. I begin to feel quite important surrounded by my own personal militia.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

The dogs always walk in the road to evade pedestrians or other animals running out from gardens and spooking the group. Plus this avoids covering the pavement with muck. There is no time to stop so the dogs must just relieve themselves on the move. Normally this involves some rather unceremonious dragging.

Occasionally the dogs change positions or start bickering and need to be handled firmly. “If any trouble starts you need to stamp it out immediately,” Fabricio tells me. “If one dog acts up they can set off the others very quickly.”

I ask Fabricio why he became a dog-walker. “I started off just helping out a friend,” he tells me. “Then I really took to it. I earn twice as much doing this than as a photo-journalist, that’s what I studied at university. Plus I only have to work five hours a day from Monday to Friday.”

Many different professions have found it more profitable walking dogs than their original careers. “I charge around $100 a month to each client,” Fabricio tells me. “I now have a friend helping me by taking some of my dogs. People see me in the street and that I am responsible, that’s how I get my clients. Or I am recommended by other customers.

“I know fully qualified vets that have taken up dog walking to make more money,” he says. “Two years ago my friend was earning only $5 an hour as a vet, that’s just $1 more than the guy that washes the dogs!”

We pause as Fabricio delivers another pet to its home. My charges seem unusually quiet until I look around and see an act of fornication very much in progress. Feeling very prudish I separate the pair but Bonzo appears to disapprove. He must have a voyeuristic side to his character.

I have never been very intimidated by dogs. However, when a Rottweiler that looks like he could chase a brown bear up a tree starts growling, I tend to take note – especially when he is tied to my waist. Thankfully he is eventually placated and we continue onwards without any more problems.

A Change of Careers?

All in all the life of a dog-walker is certainly attractive. Of course occasionally the job can become quite stressful when there is traffic to be negotiated. The added obstacles of level-crossings, children, prams, other dogs and elderly pedestrians demand constant vigilance.

Despite this, the days continued relatively free of problems. The exercise is certainly vigorous and maintaining order can be difficult, especially when the females are on heat.

As well as walking the dogs, we also delivered them to the professional groomers and kept an eye on their health. Sometimes they emerged looking so dashing I began to feel quite self-conscious. Once I even went home and had a shave.

Getting to know the individual personalities is key. Achilles was young and boisterous, Hans was affectionate and Kancha definitely had an eye on the ladies. My favourite was Kampi, a gorgeous Golden Retriever. He would always bark in a schoolyard ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ manner whenever the other dogs were engaged in a round of handbags, without ever getting involved himself.

Certainly I could imagine taking up the job full-time. Fresh air, exercise and friendly companionship is always attractive. So, Gringo Dog-Walkers Inc? Watch this space.

By Kristie Robinson

Winter 1972. The dictatorship of Lanusse is slowly losing its grip on power, and protests by left-wing organizations, trade unionists and students are becoming more and more frequent. The call for elections and a return to democracy is getting louder, and the country increasingly polarized.

Since the 1966 coup, human rights have deteriorated and arbitrary imprisonment of intellectuals, students and trade unionists – or simply those with different ideologies than the ruling junta – is a regular occurrence.

The jails are starting to fill with political prisoners, many of whose only crime is a different way of thinking. Outraged, the left-wing forces begin organizing themselves, and by the end of 1970 many guerrilla and militant groups have formed, the most well-known being the Montoneros, ERP (the People’s Revolutionary Army, the militant wing of the PRT, the Worker’s Revolutionary Party) and the FAR (Armed Revolutionary Party).

Click to view slide show – Photos by Sanra Ritten

The most dangerous – or perhaps just influential – prisoners are tucked firmly out of sight, away from Buenos Aires, in two maximum-security penitentiaries – one in Chaco, in the north of Argentina, and another in Rawson, close to Trelew, in a far-flung corner of Chubut, Patagonia.

The Prison

At the door of Rawson penitentiary, the cold Patagonian wind whips around my head. The sky goes on forever, and the horizon is far away. It is flat and barren. The enormity of the landscape contrasts horrifically with what is on the other side of the door.

Standing in the cell, if I stretch my arms out no matter which way I turn I can touch the walls. It is cold and bare. And tiny. A metal stool and table are in the corner. And I am told two people would normally have been housed in this space in the 1970s.

Photo By: Sanra Ritten

One man breaks down, revisiting the cell where he spent nine hard years. He tells me that coming back is a contradiction – he is reliving the hell of all those years, but at the same time experiencing again the solidarity of the compañeros with whom he survived hell. He points out that we are not shown the punishment cell, where it was said you would lose a kilo a day, such were the conditions.

Someone else cracks a joke, and everyone laughs, easing the tension. It is what they used to do, they tell me, humour got them through. Except laughing was punishable, they are quick to add, and the somberness returns.

And then I emerge from the cell block and the dazzling sunlight is blinding. Although I cannot see the remote landscape outside, the whitewashed prison walls preventing such a view, there is something in the air, or the sun, or maybe even the sky that tantalizes, making me aware of what I am missing out on.

The experience is overwhelming.

The Escape

Faced with these devastating conditions, on 15th August 1972, over 100 political prisoners tried to escape.

Rawson was a fortress, and the junta expected that if an escape attempt was to happen, it would come from the outside. As a result the prison was heavily armed on the outside, but inside the defenses were much lower, as if an unaided breakout would never happen. It would have been suicide – even if such a breakout could happen, where could the prisoners go? Adding to the odds against such an attempt, aero-naval base Almirante Zar was just outside of Trelew, and the region was thus teeming with military personnel.

However, as Fernando Vaca Narvaja, one of the masterminds of the escape, explains: “All of the prisons had escape plans. In Rawson there were two; the first was a tunnel, which we started, but it kept flooding, so we turned to a different idea, which was the escape that we undertook. We planned it differently, conceptually. Some 100 militants on the outside were involved in the planning, and on the inside we planned the escape in cell block 5.”

The escape had military planning and precision, with every detail and possibility considered and accounted for. The idea was for the prisoners to take the prison from the inside, using one of the regular military inspections as cover.

Photo By: Sanra Ritten

“We managed to get on side one of the guards, Carmelo Facio, who smuggled in military uniforms and a gun,” Narvaja adds.

On the day of the inspection, 15th August 1972, Narvaja put on the military uniform, the idea being they would arouse less suspicion initially disguised as military personnel, and by the time the guards realised it would be too late.

The prisoners were split into three groups, the first consisting of six compañeros who would lead the operation, dressed as military personnel. The six included founding and leading members of the Montoneros, ERP and FAR.

The second group, consisting of 19 further prisoners, would stabilize the prison, and leave in the second wave, and then a final group of 89 prisoners would follow behind.

The taking of the jail went almost like clockwork, the prisoners finding almost no resistance to their efforts, until a guard, Juan Gregorio Valenzuela, got into a violent confrontation with Marcos Osatinsky, of FAR, and was shot dead. Osatinsky had a silencer on his gun and so the shooting was unknown by other guards, and so didn’t arouse suspicion, and the operation carried on as planned.

They made it to the exterior posts of the prison, and guerrillas took up the positions of the guards, surveilling the Patagonian plains.

The first vehicle, a Ford Falcon, driven by a compañero came into the prison compound, and took the first six as planned. However, upon leaving they realised that the van and trucks were not there to take and second and third group of prisoners.

Jorge Lewinger, one of the FAR people planning the escape from the outside, takes responsibility for this. He misread one of the signals and interpreted it to mean the escape had gone wrong. Realising how dangerous it would have been if they were caught outside, he informed the drivers to abort the mission. They learnt of their mistake when talking having driven various kilometres, and turned back, but upon approaching the prison realised they were too late as the military were everywhere.

Meanwhile the first group of escapees drove around Rawson looking for the other vehicles. Narvaja explained: “We were supposed to only take 15 minutes to take the prison, and it took 17 or 18. We guessed they thought something had gone wrong, or they had got lost. We tried finding them, but to no avail. Knowing we had a plane to catch, we told the second group to call for taxis, and headed to the airport in Trelew.”

The second group made the calls, and three taxis soon arrived to take the 19 prisoners to the airport. The remaining group had little other choice than to remain behind.

Celedonio Carrizo, one of the 89 left behind, who, had the taxis been slightly bigger, would have been the next prisoner to taste freedom, said: “At the time we were obviously disappointed, but we were also happy as we felt the operation had been a success as 25 compañeros had made it out. And we were proud of them.”

The first group of militants made it to the airport in time to catch the flight, which was coming from Comodoro Rivadavia en route to Buenos Aires. Three other militants were on board the plane, and the plan was to hijack it at Trelew, and divert to Chile. The escapees arrived at the airport when the plane was already on the runway, preparing for takeoff. So they decided to head up to the control tower and tell the traffic controllers they had had a tip-off there was a bomb on board, and they would have to inspect the aircraft. This was plausible, as they were all dressed in military uniforms, and so were allowed to board the plane with little difficulty, which the three militants on board, seeing them coming, had already taken control of. They delayed taking off until they felt they could no longer, and managed to divert the plane to Puerto Mont in southern Chile, followed by the capital Santiago, where socialist president Salvador Allende guaranteed their asylum and safe passage to Cuba, some ten days later.

Photo By: Sanra Ritten

The second group of 19 escapees arrived at the airport in the three taxis just in time to see the plane take off.

Knowing the military would be on their tail shortly, and fearing for their lives should they be caught unprepared, they took control of the airport and held the passengers and staff hostage, demanding access to lawyers, doctors and journalists. They were granted all of their requests, and were allowed to speak to the judge and lawyers, as well as talk to the cameras about what had happened. They asked to be returned to the prison, saying they would go peacefully in return for the guarantee of their own safety.

Capitan Sosa, one of the military commanders at the Almirante Zar base, gave his word the military would comply. On the 16th August, the prisoners found themselves en route to the prison once again, when they diverted to the military base. They were told Rawson jail was still under the control of the prisoners, and they would be going to the base instead. The judge, lawyers and journalists who had accompanied them in their journey were not allowed to enter, and had little choice but to leave them at the door.

Over the subsequent days the 19 prisoners were interrogated and tortured by the military authorities, their maltreatment worsening daily, until on 21st August they were told they would be returning to the prison the next day.

However, such hopes were never to be realised, as at 3.30am on 22nd August 16 of the prisoners were killed.

Thirteen of the prisoners were killed outright, including Ana María Villarreal de Santucho, the wife of ERP leader Roberto Santucho who had made it to Chile in the first wave of the escape. She was four months pregnant at the time. Three died later that day from blood loss sustained in their injuries, and three survived to tell the truth of what happened that night.

The official version of events, as told by Capitan Sosa, was that Mariano Pujadas, one of the prisoners, had taken his gun and tried to initiate an escape, and the military had been forced to return fire. This version, made public shortly after the shootings, was full of contradictions and widely questioned.

The three survivors’ testimonies, which came out after the dictatorship fell the following year, told a very different tale.

At 3.30am the prisoners were violently woken and forced from their cells and told to form a line, where, defenceless, they were machine gunned by a group of soldiers on the command of Sosa, after he said: “Now you’re going to see what anti-guerrilla terror really looks like.” The only thing that stopped all of the 19 prisoners from being killed on the spot was the arrival of other soldiers on the scene.

The massacre was an unprecedented incident in the history of Argentina, although an ominous sign of things to come later in the decade. It led to demonstrations around the country, and is regarded as the turning point in the history of ERP, which grew more militant almost overnight, having lost 11 members.

Of the incident, current secretary for human rights, Eduardo Luis Duhalde, who represented more than one of the 19 political prisoners, says: “As a lawyer, it is the most impotent I have ever felt. Under a dictatorship there is no rule of law, and therefore my role was demoted to one of watching.”

Last month over 350 former political prisoners returned to Rawson prison for the 35th anniversary of the massacre. To mark the anniversary, the old airport, which had stood empty for some 30 years, was opened as a space for memory.

One of the cellblocks of Rawson was also reopened for the anniversary, which allowed the former prisoners to re-enter where they had been housed all those years ago.

For further information on the Rawson escape and the subsequent massacre:

Read ‘Trelew, Historia de una masacre y la organización popular como respuesta’ by Christian Petralito and Alberto Alderete. Published in Spanish by Nuestra America www.nuestramerica.com.ar

Watch ‘Trelew’, a documentary directed by Mariana Arruti, which tells the story through interviews and original footage from 1972.

If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise…

Instead of teddy bears, you could be sharing your tartan throw and cream teas with some of Buenos Aires’ transvestites.

In the sprawling Parque 3 Febrero, by day, you will find families walking, laughing, feeding the ducks, splashing around on boat rides and strolling through the rose gardens. By night the park, or more specifically the so-called ‘Bosques de Palermo’, host a far more shady enterprise: transgender prostitution.

The transvestite prostitute community (or travestis as they are known) of the bosques has developed in a typically turbulent way. In September 2004, a government bill prohibited prostitution within 200 metres of a school, church or residential building. This left them with very few options, but the relative peace and quiet of the bosques continued to house them, in spite of the restrictions.

Photo By Daniel Estrada

In August 2007, following complaints by local residents and park users, the prohibition was extended to this patch also. The travestis reacted in angry protest and an uneasy meeting in the rather unlikely location of the Palermo Golf Club ensued.

Residents and prostitutes have now agreed to disagree and government bodies are currently negotiating some kind of peace.

As the travestis struggle to gain ground, business continues as usual and unashamedly. It has become a well documented part of the Buenos Aires experience. The whispered words ‘Bosques de Palermo’, mean only one thing to the taxi drivers, and with a wink and a ’si, señor’, you’re off into the depths; no questions or sideways glances.

I brave the woods to discover more.

We drive past the trees, and a row of streetlamps slides into view. There, sure enough, lining the streets, are the feathers, the legs and the hand bags. Scantily-clad, whistling and beckoning anyone who passes by or dares to catch their eye. I am struck by its unambiguous, explicit organization. It’s far from the threatening, clandestine practice that it is traditionally seen as.

Photo By Daniel Estrada

Here, there are as many curious onlookers as there are clients; revellers from the nearby electronica club, ‘Crow bar’, wander through, as well as the occasional jogger and pedestrian. The way is well lit and open, noisy and vibrant; not the ‘forbidden forest’ I was expecting. I also notice a distinct lack of police patrols through the area. I zip my rucksack up and venture in.

I approach a happy-looking young ‘lady’, who turns out to be Luna, aged 18, with a cigarette in hand as a kind of peace offering. For, though not naturally shy by any means, they have learned not to trust too quickly.

“The life of a transvestite is very complicated," she offers, wistfully, “you don’t know if you will make it home alive at the end of the night." Her story is typical, though she is younger than most. She works the streets for money, even in the winter when it snows, because there is less money for call girls. Like many of the community, she gets hassled by taxi drivers and the police, who have been known to take advantage of their vulnerability.

Despite an obvious Adam’s apple and hands that are bigger than mine (as she lights her cigarette), you could certainly be forgiven for mistaking Luna’s sexual identity. She has flowing red hair, and incredible legs; though she admits that she is ‘pretty macho’, and that, after all, she ‘has balls’.

Photo By Daniel Estrada

She is ambitious and is currently studying English, though, perhaps disappointingly, this is more as a way to reach the tourists than as a way out. Foreigners and English people, she says, are more upfront, looking for an adventure; whereas Argentines are often more shy.

She worries about making money, and the cold in winter. She is afraid of getting diseases. “If I continue with this …[I] won’t live until I’m 35," she says.

A report in 2006 by the association of the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo surveyed over 300 transvestites. The report said that nearly 70% of these had died between the ages of 22 and 41. Of these, 62% died of HIV/AIDS, 17% were murdered and the rest committed suicide, were killed in traffic accidents, or were ‘the victims of drug overdose, illnesses or medical malpractice in cosmetic surgery carried out in unhygienic conditions’.

Ninety percent of those surveyed said they had suffered physical or verbal abuse because of their gender identity.

‘Precila’, the next girl along, wearily loiters, then eventually comes over and introduces a new topic. We discuss the ‘provincial girls’ from outside Capital Federal. Life outside Buenos Aires, I learn, is harder still; here at least the girls look out for one another. They have strength in numbers, and this is attracting many to the city.

This influx, however, means increased competition. After all, they are competing for clients in a supply-and-demand market. Zula Lucero, from ‘Las Mariposas’ website, articulated in blunt terms the market nature of the job, saying: “we are bodies on a corner which are consumed like a cigarette."

Despite this constant objectification, Luna and Precila remain sentient, thoughtful and respectful. Precila tells me that as a youngster she was taught to treat people with respect, and that she always has done so as a result.

The travestis are developing a public profile. Argentina’s most famous transvestite Florencia de la V, has done a lot to make the public more aware. “People have become more tolerant," she says.

A new magazine, ‘El Teje’, run by the Centro Cultural Rojas, is devoted to the transvestite community. Despite some teething problems (most of the community have little formal education), the first issue print run of 1,000 copies quickly ran out. They are currently looking to raise funds through advertising, and are hoping to develop the magazine in the coming months.

This tolerance is allowing them a voice that they have lacked for so long. A draft law on transgender identity, which has been introduced in Congress, would allow transvestites to legally change their name and thus their official gender identity. This will allow them access to the public facilities which we often take for granted, and also applications to work.

The movement may be getting a reputation in court, but until they are allowed equal access to the porteño life, prostitution will remain their principle source of income.

Luna and Precila have quickly overturned my preconceptions. They are not scary or freakish; they are strong-minded, charismatic and funny. But they are badly misunderstood and vulnerable in their dangerous profession.

As we go to leave, someone screams ‘puto!’ from a passing car, as it booms out the obligatory boy-racer reggaton. Luna shrugs again, puffs on her cigarette and struts over to their open mouths and wide eyes.

On the night of Monday 6th August 2007, Gonzalo Acro, accompanied by a friend, were approached by three men on a street in Villa Urquiza, Buenos Aires, whilst walking home from the gym. The trio opened fire, and left the pair for dead on the pavement.

Three days later, a spokesman at the Pirovano hospital where Acro lay in a coma announced that in the early hours of that same day, the 29-year-old had died from gun shot wounds to the head.

Not just a random attack, this was described as ‘the latest bout of football-related violence’ in Argentina.

Football Hooliganism

Football hooliganism in South America is by no means a new phenomenon – the late 1950s saw an escalation of football-related violence, which earned great media interest globally. Indeed, Argentina’s most significant incident of football-related violence occurred nearly 40 years ago, when 72 people were killed at a match between River Plate and Boca Juniors.

More recently, a death toll of 40 people at football matches between 1992 and 2002 provoked an investigation into football hooliganism in Argentina which concluded that football violence had become a national crisis. In the 2002 season, five supporters were killed and dozens fell victim to stabbing and shootings, causing the season to be suspended.

Passionate fans at Platense, Photo by Fabricio Di Dio

This football hooliganism is commonly attributed to organised supporter groups known as barras bravas. Their style of support is comparable to that of the Ultra groups in Europe – standing throughout matches, organising chants and displaying large flags and banners in their teams colours.

The case of Gonzalo Acro

‘Los Borrachos del Tablón’ is the name of River Plate’s barra brava, and Gonzalo Acro was a significant member. The group is currently headed by brothers, Alan and William Schlenker, but a rebel faction, led by Adrián Rousseau, is trying to seize power of the barra. Gonzalo Acro was described as ‘the lieutenant’ of Rousseau.

On 10th August, ‘La Nación’, quoting police sources, vocalised general suspicions that Acro’s death was related to the complicated politics of the Buenos Aires club’s extreme supporter group: "Gonzalo Acro knew his killers, who were likely to have been members of the other sector of the violent supporter group known as ‘Los Borrachos del Tablón’," reported Gabriel Di Nicola.

Adrián Rousseau fuelled the speculation, telling magazine ‘Veintitrés’: "Alan [Schlenker] organised it…He may have an alibi but he arranged it all ten days ago." Schlenker came out to defend himself, claiming he and Acro were good friends, and he was saddened to hear the news of his death. Schlenker has since been detained for his alleged role in the murder.

Graffiti decrying football hooliganism, Photo by Fabricio Di Dio

What influence do the barras bravas actually have?

Just over a month after the murder of Gonzalo Acro, it was the turn of Newell’s Old Boy’s barra brava to steal the limelight. Following a defeat to Central, club manager, Pablo Marini, stepped down. Five witnesses reportedly saw several members of the club’s barra brava threaten Marini in the dressing room and initial reports suggested this was the reason for his resignation.

However, Marini told Olé: "There wasn’t any aggression, there was no intent of aggression, there were no guns, there were no threats, no players intervened." Marini was puzzled by the eye witnesses’ claims.

Whatever version of the truth is correct, the alleged incident suggests that the barras bravas have an alarmingly high level of accessibility to the powers that be within football clubs.

It is the structure of Argentine football clubs that facilitates power for the barras bravas: Given that it is club members who vote for the team president, ‘a rent-a mob is such a useful thing to have’ said BBC Sport’s South American football correspondent Tim Vickery. "They are clearly monsters that the clubs have helped create," he continued.

It is hard to determine whether a change in club structure would limit the powers of the barras bravas. However, it is worth examining the situation at Racing – Argentina’s only sizeable club that is privately owned, following the takeover by Blanquiceleste in 2001.

Racing took the unprecedented step of banning its own barra brava, ‘La Guarda Imperial’, from home matches at the Cilindro de Avellaneda stadium. A step labelled as ‘interesting’ by Vickery, ‘but insufficient on its own to combat hooliganism’. The measure has nevertheless earned the club far reaching plaudits for their efforts in stamping out hooliganism, and the Cilindro is regarded as one of the safest stadiums in the country.

Racing are not without their problems, and to say that there is no supporter influence would be inaccurate: The tenure of current director, Fernando De Tomaso, has been dogged by rumours of corruption. Staff, both playing and non-playing went several months unpaid in 2006-7, and rumours that Blanquiceleste were pocketing club money were rife. This provoked fans to protest on more than one occasion, demanding that De Tomaso hold presidential elections at the club. Many experts predict the owner will step down.

Barra Brava at Boca Juniors Photo by Fabricio Di Dio

Is the problem being dealt with?

This year’s Clausura campaign is just three rounds old, and the trouble surrounding barras bravas does not seem to be going away. ‘Los Borrachos del Tablón’ marked the new season with violent scraps between the rival factions in the Monumental before their opener with Olimpia.

The political will to deal with the problem of football hooliganism, ‘while far from ideal, is stronger than in the past’, said Vickery. Indeed – the interior ministry are intervening, and cases against football hooliganism are getting to the courts.

On 19th February 2006, 35,000 were in attendance at Colón de Santa Fe’s Brigadier General Estanislao López stadium to watch the fixture against River Plate. During the match, a member of Colon’s barra brava, José Gastón Mendoza, pulled out a 17cm blade and stabbed a fellow fan in the chest, back, arms and right wrist. Television cameras were present for the match, and caught the incident on film, and 22 months later, on 22nd December 2007, Mendoza was sentenced to six years imprisonment for attempted murder.

How can the problem be solved?

The barra brava is big businesses: Joel Richards revealed in The Guardian that ‘Los Borrachos del Tablón’ earn approximately $300,000 a month touting tickets, controlling parking areas around River’s stadium and organising away trips for fans. It is also reported that the barra’s already sizeable income is regularly supplemented by cuts received from big money transfers.

Gol Celebration at River Stadium Photo by Maximiliano Neira

Institutional support of the barras bravas is possibly Argentine football’s worst kept secret – River president José María Aguilar in the past has vocalised his admiration of previous leaders of ‘Los Borrachos’, and on one occasion did so on live television.

"Even the most cast iron political will not be enough on its own in solving hooliganism" continued Vickery, citing the close relationship between club management and the fans as an impediment to eradicating the problem.

England is widely regarded as a country that has largely ridded football hooliganism from its domestic leagues. I asked Tim Vickery how England sorted out the problem, and if Argentina can follow suit:

"Increased punishment and enforcement measures are often cited in the English example," said Vickery. "What is often overlooked is that at the same time there was also a profound shift in fan culture – youth culture changed in the late 80s, hooliganism became less fashionable and fans distanced themselves from former practices and found new ways of expressing their support through the fanzine movement, for example. This phenomenon will clearly not repeat itself in the same way in Argentina, but I think it needs to manifest itself in some form. Top down measures will not be enough to solve the problem."

"The onus is also on the supporters to distance themselves from the barras bravas and find new ways of supporting the team. More modern stadiums can obviously play a part in this process, but at the end of the day stadiums are just buildings and laws are just pieces of paper. Without action from the bottom up – by the fans – the problem will not go away."

For more information on barras bravas, please visit www.hastaelgolsiempre.com

By Alexander Zevin

Gualeguaychú, a small city in Entre Ríos province, used to be famous for one reason: it is the site of Argentina’s largest Carnaval celebration. In January Carnaval seems almost to land in Gualeguaychú – flooding this greyish city in a sea of visitors and incandescent feathery flesh which then lifts off again sometime in early March. These days, though, Gualeguaychú is as likely to be known for its role in the standoff between Argentina and Uruguay over the construction of two paper plants on the right bank of the Rio Uruguay.

In 2003 the Uruguayan government gave Spanish company ENCE permission to build an enormous pulp mill on its side of the Río Uruguay. But the dispute began in earnest after a second company, Botnia of Finland, was also cleared to build a paper plant in the same area. Since 2005 residents from Gualeguaychú have engaged in a highly effective, if intermittent, blockade of the bridges leading into Uruguay in order to stop the plants’ construction. The protestors believe the plants will inevitably pollute the river and air they share with Uruguay. ENCE appears to have given up its project at Frey Bentos but Botnia’s plant continues to rise from the littoral. The situation is a serious diplomatic event. Argentina and Uruguay have both brought their case to the World Court at the Hague; Spain has offered to mediate; and Uruguay, which estimates that it has lost more than US$400m because of the blockades, has appealed to the regional trade group Mercosur.

Photo by Kate Stanworth

Despite the stakes involved, there is something unmistakably carnivalesque about the dispute between Argentina and Uruguay. In May, President Kirchner joined a massive rally held in Gualeguaychú’s corsodromo where he exhorted the crowd to ’stand together’ to solve the environmental issue. The piqueteros who drink mate on lawn chairs and march down Routes 135 and 14 carrying banners and flags are protestors, but they are also on parade.

As if to underline this point, Evagelina Carrozzo, the Queen of Gualeguaychú’s Carnaval, ambushed a meeting of world leaders in Vienna last May. She strode directly into a photo shoot of 58 heads of state wearing nothing but a bikini and carrying a sign reading ‘Basta de Papeleras Contaminantes – No Pulp Mill Pollution’.

Carnaval time for the Contre-Papeleras

Gualeguaychú does not look like a city about to explode into celebration. In the twilight hours couples stroll peacefully along the costanera while below them, in the sliver of park that fronts the Río Gualeguaychú, kids play football, using tents as goalposts. On Av. Irazusta, the main street leading towards the corsodromo, young men are unloading the parade floats from warehouses. Above them are the high hulking walls of a prison. Men press their faces against the bars of their cells to get a better look at the scene below; an orange float with a patio and staircase is making its way along the prison ramparts. All seems primed for a highly colourful prison break.

Once inside the corsodromo, the barely-contained energy is palpable: Carnaval is indeed about to begin. The smell of roasting meat wafts towards the parade route, the floor of which is covered in advertisements for beer and soft drinks and drugs. Girls are delivering coupons and newspapers and refreshing cups of Nestle lemonade. Gualeguaychú’s carnaval is a phantasmagoria in which each advertisement becomes a kind of absurd and indecipherable symbol that melts into the collective spectacle.

Photo by Kate Stanworth

The political dimension of Carnaval is likewise built directly onto its dazzling surface. As soon as you enter the grounds of the corsodromo there is a prominent stand, run by the Environmental Assembly of Gualeguaychú, selling ‘No a las Papeleras’ t-shirts, mugs, hand-bags, hats and sandals.. Carnaval begins after a voice blares over the loudspeaker: "Stop the Papeleras. No to Contamination, Yes to Life!" And the very first ‘float’ is a group of students shouting slogans and carrying a giant banner which reads ‘No Dejemos Que Nuestras Sueños Se Vayan Por Una Chimenea. No a las Papeleras’ (Don’t let our dreams go up in smoke. No to the paper mills).

Nor is this political message something imposed from above by the official organisers of Gualeguaychú’s carnaval. The crowd reserves their hardiest shouts for the students or anyone else carrying a sign that opposes the construction of the paper mills. During lulls in the parade, people begin to chant "No a las Papeleras" along to the guitar riff from the White Stripe’s song, ‘Seven Nation Army’. The entire corsodromo is hit by wave after wave of this chorus. It is a battle cry which is no less serious for being shouted seemingly at random. President Kirchner, who has condemned the recent violence between asambleístas from Gualeguaychú and residents of Montevideo, would do well to look at Carnaval for clues as to why the protestors are so fiercely committed to their cause. ‘Yes to Life!’ is the motto for both Carnaval and the anti-papeleras movement.

And then there are the floats and the dancers. Attempting to describe them is to risk losing yourself in a sea of adjectives, a hellish inventory of fabulous nonsense. The floats include a Moorish castle that sprouts out of purple ice; a monstrous Leprechaun masthead that juts out of a forest hideout; and an Egyptian river barge led by Greek settlers. During the height of the performance the audience and the costumed dancers gyrate in blissful harmony. Girls in silver bikinis and white-plumed wings follow the anti-papeleras protestors. These are followed, in no particular order, by darkly clad witches dancing devilishly around a foaming cauldron, by some kind of Liberace-inspired superheroes in silver space suits. Submariners dressed in fencing outfits entrance the crowd with a display of batucada drumming and choreographed samba. There are dancers whose wings are tipped by miniature hot air balloons, propellers, solar panels! People are about to dance themselves into space!

Photo by Kate Stanworth

Carnaval is not a parade but a wild, unreasonable excuse to flirt. Girls shake their behinds with such careless insouciance that men put up their hands, begging them to stop.

But the girls won’t stop so the men have no choice but to wink and make jokes, to throw numbers at the supple young forms who come vibrating past them. The girls are not cynical either. From beneath a layer of glitter they smile indulgently at their crazed admirers. Women extend their bodies over the barrier to reel in the male dancers. Everyone in the crowd is touching each other needlessly and giggling. The paper mills aren’t about to stop them.

The mills are, in fact, at the very centre of Carnaval’s peculiar historical mixture of oblivion and social protest. They fulfill a double function: as objects of general approbation and reasons for the people to dance and sing – a celebration of life which is also, and by its very nature, a ward against the baleful effects of the mills. If Gualeguaychú’s carnaval is an official spectacle it is also one whose energy, once unleashed, is difficult to control. This is certainly one reason why, despite attempts to calm tensions on the border between Uruguay and Argentina, the anti-papeleras movement shows no signs of giving up.

In life Elvis inspired blue haired women to swoon, in death he has motivated legions of conspiracy theorists to keep him alive. Finding Elvis alive and well in Argentina has become a cottage industry, sparking the analysis of decades old government records in an effort to place the King in South America.

According to a documentary in Buenos Aires, Argentine records show that on the morning of August 17th, a PanAm 747 arrived in Buenos Aires from Memphis, Tennessee. The plane was first made to land at Argentina’s Palomar Military Airport, where only one passenger disembarked.

Jorge Daniel Garcia, a military guard at the time remembers:

It must have been someone fairly important, as there was a great commotion around. The cars went away quickly, and the plane then stayed on the tarmac for an hour or so.

The documentary continues with the information that the plane traveled on to Ezeiza International Airport, where flight logs record its arrival as an hour and a half late. The missing passenger was identified through ticket records as a Mr. Jon Burrows, who bought his ticket in cash only hours before the plane’s departure time.

This wasn’t the first time a man named Jon Burrows caused a commotion in airports. Jon Burrows was one of Elvis’ favorite assumed names, using it frequently when on tour. It was even used when he traveled to Washington, DC for a meeting with President Nixon to become a Federal Agent-at-Large (a title crafted from Elvis’ own fruitful imagination).

From Elvis’s Hand Written Letter to the White House Asking To Meet Nixon

Many claim there is further evidence that Elvis abandoned fame, fortune and his pet monkey Scatter for tango, gauchos and World Cup futbol. Following the death of Elvis’ second cousin Sheriff Harold Presley in 2001, a condolence letter arrived at his precinct. Signed Aaron Levis with an Argentina return address, the letter expressed regret at the death of the well respected officer. The officers were understandably mystified by the correspondence, Aaron being Elvis’ middle name and Levis an anagram of his last.

A search for Elvis is now underway in Argentina, long the home to international fugitives of one stripe or another. Notably, this would be the only fugitive Argentines are actually interesting in finding. Supposedly an Aaron Levis was tracked to Parque Leloir, a neighborhood in greater Buenos Aires characterized by it’s 1950s style California ranch houses. Canvassing Parque Leloir, documentary makers found numerous shop owners with memories of a man named Aaron Levis, whose visage caused suspicions about his true identity.

Incredibly the elderly, obese and near death Aaron Levis described by the shop keepers managed to outwit his pursuers and was unfortunately never located.

Why would Elvis fake his death and relocate to Argentina, which at the time was suffering under the rule of a brutal military dictatorship? Armed with his Federal Agent-at-Large status and a DEA badge, did Elvis head to Argentina to free an oppressed people?

Or was it more sinister?

Sec. of State Henry Kissinger was a well documented supporter of the military regime. Could Elvis have gone south to help in the eradication of the leftists and hippies he so greatly despised? Elvis noted in his meeting with Nixon that "violence, drug use and protest all seem to merge in generally the same group of young people."

From the White House meeting notes

Elvis was always clear about what he wanted to do to those that broke his societal laws. From a concert in Las Vegas, 1974:

Don’t you get offended ladies and gentlemen, I’m talking to someone else, if I find or hear an individual that has said that about me, I’m going to break their goddamn neck you son of a bitch, that is dangerous….I will pull your goddamn tongue out – by the roots!

Behavior like that would make him right at home in Argentina circa 1977.

Or maybe he just became tired from the pressures of fame and saw a potential soul mate in Argentine futbol hero Diego Maradona? Fried peanut butter and maté anyone?

Documentary on the search for Elvis in Argentina:

Related Links:

Discovery Channel: Conspiracies and Myths
New York Times: Mississippi: Sheriff Dies in Shootout
U.S. Archives: When Nixon Met Elvis
Elvis en Argentina: Elvis En Argentina