On a cool evening in the autumn of 2016, I got home and my wife told me that there was an event being held in the neighborhood. The idea was that one could visit various expositions and historic sites around Belgrano R and get a stamp at each. Once one had all seven stamps, one could claim a prize. The only catch was that we had to do it all before 8:30 PM… it was already 6:30.
Her kids and I (she couldn’t join due to being seven months pregnant) took off at once. We rushed around like maniacs and visited 3 churches (including the one in the photo), 2 schools, a social club and some other stuff I can’t remember, walked about three miles and earned our prize. The kids chose a book.
On the face of it, this book was a natural choice, as it was about the Buenos Aires Zoo. But delving a little deeper, it wasn’t really a good book for kids at all. It was a collection of scholarly historical essays dealing with the creation of the zoo itself in all its historical and social significance, as well as a specific focus on a Byzantine Portico commissioned for the entrance to the park. The book, quite naturally, is entitled El Pórtico Bizantino del Jardín Zoologico de Buenos Aires.
To understand the attraction of something like this, it must be noted that, when the zoo was being planned in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Buenos Aires was the capital of a world power which looked to Europe for its social cues. Anyone visiting from fin de siècle Paris would have felt right at home, and did. Transplanted victorian ladies would have been able to walk the park’s promenades without having to modify their dress–their Argentine peers would have looked exactly the same.
So the government had art experts scouring the markets in Europe and the Middle East for suitable antiquities. Many arrived… some real, some not-so-real, and the analysis of whether the Portico’s columns are from classical antiquity or from a 19th century Italian workshop is both exhaustive and, to a modern reader, amusing.
Amusing in a sad way, though. Firstly, because, despite having been in the zoo many, many times, I’d never really paid much attention to the semicircle of columns set on an island in a park lake. It was just part of the background, and a difficult to see and not-very-imposing part at that.
Secondly, it’s sad because, due to unfortunate intervention of a small but vocal minority, the Buenos Aires zoo, a magnificent public space enjoyed by a city of fifteen million people, was forced to close at just about the same time as I was gaining possession of this particular volume. It’s supposedly going to be reopened at some future date as an eco-park (the word “eco” in there should give a clue as to which special interest group needs to be appeased), but it hasn’t happened yet.
It’s poignant that the Portico might disappear now. Not because it was a major attraction–it wasn’t. But it was part of the history of the city… To have it disappear as an unintended side effect of pressure from fanatics is a sad but accurate reflection of how the modern world works.
Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine novelist and short story writer. His novel Incursion was released by Severed Press in 2017.