by Andy Doubt Raiser
London, November 2008

The claims that the population of African origin in Argentina was exterminated in an act of genocide are absurd and they deserve a place next to extraterrestrial kidnappings and the staging of the moon landing in an Arizona undisclosed location, under the heading of looney tunes hoaxes. Currently 10%, around 1.4 million of the population of Buenos Aires has African heritage. In 1810, black and mulatos totaled 9,615 [42% of the population], therefore, in 200 years, the number of individuals with African ancestry in Buenos Aires has gone up 142 times!!!!! This confirms the claims of those who attribute the “disappearance” of blacks to consensual interracial marriages among other things.

The slave trade was made illegal in 1810 with independence from Spain, Then in 1813, came what was known as the “Ley del Vientre”, declaring free anybody who from that day onwards landed on Argentine soil, whether from abroad or from their mother’s womb. Clearly it made no difference to those who were already slaves at the time, who had to wait another 40 years, until slavery itself was made illegal, in the Constitution of 1853 to acquire their freedom.

The Constitution of Argentina, to this day, has a racist foundation: Article 25. “The Federal Government shall encourage European immigration; and may not restrict, limit or burden with any tax whatsoever, the entrance into Argentine territory of foreigners who arrive for the purpose of tilling the soil, improving industries, and introducing and teaching the arts and sciences.” Imagine the audacity of these people wanting to attract laborers, artisans, artists and scientists. What’s next, restrictions to terrorists, or tango teachers like the US and the UK have done?

There is a precedent out there. Domingo Sarmiento, abhorred blacks with their candombe processions because he was painfully aware that white men can’t wave and shimmy. His dream was to populate and civilize like the British Empire and the rising US had done. To that effect he toured extensively both countries to copy their educational system and their immigration policies. Natives and Negroes were systematically eliminated, and Argentina was the success story of genocide, well in front of Custer and the 7th Cavalry, Apartheid and Adolf Hitler. If you think this is absurd wait until I tell you about the yellow fever epidemic.

The yellow fever epidemic of 1871 started in 1871. Biological warfare had already been used against the Indians; indeed, in the first 100 years of their occupation of the Americas, the Spaniards eliminated at least 80% of the native population, with the diseases they brought with them. The authorities encircled the Negro barrios with the army holding hands after releasing a swarm of mosquitoes and mowing down anybody trying to escape with a blunt instrument called the bandoneon, invented by Hitler’s grandfather in a white supremacist region of the Bavarian Empire.

What does this have to do with tango? Probably nothing. The tango doesn’t come from Africa.

With so much persecution, genocide, extermination, chemical warfare, and every known or to be invented methods of extermination used against them, how did the black population find the time to go dancing? With such impossible living conditions how did they manage to develop such a unique and complex choreography? How was it possible to create such a alluring music with their typical drums?

Not only that but how did they manage to impose their cultural preferences to the great majority of Europeans and Creoles who were so busy exterminating them, yet couldn’t help stealing their dance moves and cultural roots instead of using their power and wealth to create something on their own.

How did they do it?

Andy is a fiction writer specializing in the inclusion of fantastic elements in a self-coherent setting where any location of the fantastical element is possible. In addition, he is the European record holder in Conclusion Jumping and Tall Tales category.

Almost every day he drives by the site and every time she casts a glance to the corner where the place where she used to dance the tango once stood up. Sometimes he’ll pull over to the curb and she will get out of the car and walk up to the corner. There, she’ll stare at the brand new store. Buried under the masonry and plaster of the colorful new structure rests in peace the place where she used to dance the tango.

It doesn’t seem to be a long time ago that people from the city and other neighborhoods gathered once a week to act out the ritual of the embrace.

Standing on that corner brings her memories of a time when she would share the laughter and the joy with her friends. One of them would always be in the mood to pour herself into a sexy dress and motivate the others to drive the distance to the nearest milonga. Like everyone else, they wanted to be where everybody was. And almost every day there was a place for the fledging tango community to meet again, to thrive for firnedship, to build camaraderie, to partake a snack, a drink, a pleasant look.

The loud roar of a four wheeler whizzing by the main road startled her. The early winter breeze played havoc with her long shiny black hair. How unfair, she whispered. We never quite appreciated the handful of dedicated men and women who gave so much of their time and money to make it possible for all of us to dance the tango.

Week after week, they would all eagerly go down the stairs to that old beat up lounge, to greet those who had already arrived, to find a chair to sit down and change their shoes, to stop by the DJ table and drop a fiver and get a hug.

Surely, she remembered, at times some would complain about the music. Even then, people who could not get the feel of the tango and those who could not keep time to the beat of Di Sarli, would roll up their eyes and snobbishly blame it in the music. It all seemed cute then. They were all rookies at this tango business. There were no curious stares even for newcomers. To the contrary, it was the norm to greet and treat everybody as another member of a proud community. There were but a few recognized teachers, a handful of dedicated volunteers and lots of eager dancers supporting everybody’s efforts.

When and how it all changed? A persistent tear in her eyes reflected the last efforts of the sun trying not to fall down behind the mountains. She fought the sense of bitterness stalking at her thoughts.

Maybe it started when the solicitation for memberships interrupted the flow of a milonga. Or when the hosts became more important than their guests. Or when they began greeting some people like frogs from another pond. Dancing became a trial run. The dye of envy began to tint the glare on some evil eyes. She couldn’t figure out when she lost her sense of belonging to become just another ten dollar bill.

Perhaps it was the sudden change in attitude in those who become allured by the prospect of fortune, power and control. They put on suits for the first time. They smiled a lot and even danced with the less skilled. In an ironic twist it seemed as if the whorehouse had returned to the tango. Then, one night nobody danced. All the teachers stood up, looking perplexed at each other in a sort of proverbial circular firing squad. The dancers had stopped coming to this place.

The buzzing neon lights were beginning to overcome the last vestiges of daylight when she began to walk away ever so slowly from the site where the place where she used to dance the tango is buried. From the fast passing cars people would stare incredulous at the sight of the beautiful brunette walking backwards in high heels, crossing her left foot in front of her right foot every so often and seemingly embracing some invisible remembrance.