Ejovi Nuwere

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I was in the museum looking at old religious artwork, it wasn’t all that interesting but it only cost me 1 peso to enter, which is 35 cents in America. So I didn’t really have much to complain about. To be honest it wasn’t quite a museum. It was the hallway of this old church just outside of the cemetery. But they called it a museum, so I will call it a museum.

At the top of the steps, on the second floor, deciding if I really wanted to continue walking through the spooky hallway, or whether I’d had my 35 cents worth when this guy came running up the steps…”where are you from?” he managed to say, barely out of breath. “Uhm…Canada” I responded, wary of any more discussion about politics. But I came to regret that decision several hours later when I met Maria and her cult.


“Oh, great. And you are visiting Argentina? So do you plan on going to the cemetery?”

“Yeah, I was planning on going there in a few minutes, why?”

“Great, I’m going too, would you like to go together?”

I grew up in New York City, which must rank pretty high up on the list of outwardly gay people and I didn’t get any vibes from this guy that said he was trying to hit on me and he didn’t look dangerous either, he was a young college student. I figured he was looking for a free English lesson, and I didn’t mind so much because I figured I would get free history lesson about the cemetery. So I agreed.

He told me about Borges, one of Argentines most admired writers. “Borges wrote about this cemetery and the people buried in it, and when I woke up today I told myself that I had to come visit and see it for myself” he spoke slowly, like today was the greatest day of his life.

The cemetery was beautiful, like a miniature city, where people are buried not in the ground but in Mausoleums that stood as high as 40 feet and went as deep as 7 meters below the surface. Outside some of the imported marble structures were bronze statues of great Generals, Colonels and ex Presidents frozen in action, imposing figures that made you wonder who they once were.

Recoleta cemetery is a place of admiration, for those who admire great wealth and leaders, and a place for those of great wealth and leadership to gain admiration even in death. The doors to the Mausoleums are all glass, allowing you to look inside and view the caskets and even photographs of those who lay inside.

It is a city of the dead. Imagine a small town that you can walk through and immediately identify who are the wealthiest and who are the less fortunate, at least in death. The wealthy families must have established trust funds to pay people to keep the structures in shape others lay in disrepair, doors barely hanging on their hinges, bricks eroding slowly with no one to care for them. The wealthiest thought ahead, importing the most expensive marble stone, others used only bricks.

We walked to Evita Peron’s mausoleum. “Maria brought Borges here. She read him the names of the people in the cemetery. He was blind”

He kept mentioning Maria throughout the day eventually I asked him “Who is Maria?”

“Maria…great woman…wise woman…old woman”

We went to a real Museum and did some other tourist stuff together in the neighborhood. I started to feel bad about telling him I was Canadian. He even asked me what I thought about American politics. While we talked about art, life, literature and Borges and Maria.

“Would you like to meet Maria, we will have a meeting today, come see her”

“First, tell me who Maria is, why should I go see this lady?”

I didn’t have anything to do that day, so eventually I gave into meeting her, but I didn’t make an actual commitment to go to her “meeting”.

We walked further into Recoleta, one of Buenos Aires most wealthy neighborhoods and into a fancy hi-rise building after being buzzed in by some woman who sounded much to young to be Maria. Once we were inside I was introduced to the woman who was hosting Maria during her trip to Buenos Aires. Then me and the guy, who name I didn’t even know sat and waited for Maria to wake up.

What the hell I’m I doing here? I thought to myself. I must be nuts.

Eventually Maria came out from a back room with a deep limp as if her hip had been broken at some point in time. She limped a few steps into the room, supported by a cane. She didn’t even acknowledge my presence before sitting on the far end of the living room, much to far for me to have a conversation with.

Agustin introduced himself formally to me and asked me my name. Then introduced me to Maria as his Canadian friend, I sank into my chair hearing him tell her I was Canadian. She said hello and I said “He has told me a lot about you, but I still have no idea who you are. What’s the deal?”

She sat back in an antique chair and smiled. I became annoyed. What type of game are these people playing? “So what is it that you do, what do you talk about? What is this meeting about and what do they discuss”

“Well, its not really a discussion, I talk and people listen” she said with a smile in perfect English. That’s great old lady I thought, but I’m not going to go listen to you or anyone else unless I know what I’m supposed to be listening for.

Then I was in a car with Maria and Agustin and the other lady being driven to the meeting. Is she a communist? Is this some sort of political group? Is she a philosopher? Is this a writers group? These thoughts ran through my head around and around like a dog chasing its tail. What the hell I’m I doing in this car. I started to realize that I was crazy for actually going to the meeting, but I’d reached a point of no return.

When we arrived at the meeting place I started to relax, it was a room full of about 30 people 28 of which were women of various ages. I figured I could take them if a fight broke out.

I received warm greetings from everyone in the room and thirty questions about Canada. One woman even lived in Toronto, the city I was claiming to be from.

Eventually Maria asked everyone to be seated and I took out my camera and waited for the show to begin. They thought I was a reporter; a woman sitting next to me translated what Maria was saying.

“The light of Atom energy is in the room” she went on and on talking about lights and energy. Then she said “Lets turn off the lights and see what color is the energy in the room” I grabbed my camera tight and crouched into a cat stance, ready to pounce the first person that would try to jump me in the darkness.

Everyone closed their eyes and bowed their heads, I feigned as if I had my eyes closed but I was really watching everyone else. Then the breathing started. Deep inhales and exhales coming from various parts of the room I had to make a real effort not to laugh. It wasn’t scary at all, just very, very amusing. While all this was taking place, I was thinking to myself “no one is going to believe this”

Then Maria started screaming, three long shouts 20 seconds apart. That’s when I thought things were really getting weird.

The lights came on and Maria said “the light in here is blue” and I looked around, for the life of me, I couldn’t find any blue lights. But everyone else seemed to agree. So I shook my head. Yes, the light is blue, aint it.

She went on about Atom energy, and eventually I stopped listening to the translations because it wasn’t making any sense to me. After the meeting was done, one of the women asked me “did you understand what she was saying?”

“No, did you understand?”

“I never understand, and I speak Spanish”

“So why did you come, who is Maria?”

“I came for the same reason you came, the energy brought me here”

Then the energy took my black behind back to the hotel. I still have no idea who Maria is.