I arrived in Buenos Aires in 2005, not long after the economic crisis of 2001 – its effects were still visible everywhere, from the cheap tickets to performances at the Teatro Colón to the cartoneros sifting through rubbish in the streets every night. From other travellers I’d heard only good things about Argentina – the enormous steaks, inexpensive Malbec and how charming the Argentinians were. I walked through Ezeiza International Airport, my heart fluttering with excitement. A man pushed a leaflet into my hand, warning of the dangers of taking unregistered taxis in the city. I shoved it into my handbag and didn’t give it another thought.I was drawn to the city’s melancholy. Tango, said to be the only dance in the world not intended to express joy, had taken a hold of me. I spent my days visiting dance classes, taking notes for Time Out magazine, for which I’d started writing.

The night it happened I had supper with my uncle, who was in town for a conference. Afterwards, at the taxi rank outside the restaurant, he couldn’t decide whether to jump in for the couple of blocks to his hotel or to walk – while he dithered, we lost the first cab and a second pulled up behind it. Deciding to walk in the end, my uncle kissed me goodbye and I hopped in.

 I told the driver my address and we set off. It was a journey I knew and from early on I didn’t recognise the route. I checked in with him once or twice, but he said I’d recognise it soon. I wound down the window for some fresh air. I didn’t want the driver to know I was anxious. I didn’t want to seem rude. It was just one more block, he told me, just one more turning.    My edginess turned to suspicion when I noticed that not only was the meter showing a number far higher than the price of the outward journey but I still had no idea where we were. When he stopped at traffic lights, I went to open the door. In a swift movement, he turned, manually locked the door and pushed something into my stomach. Stupidly, hopefully, I put my hand on it and touched the barrel of a gun. It was surprisingly small and looked brown in the lurid streetlight.   ‘There it is,’ I thought.   That was the thing I’d been waiting for. Not a love affair. Not a city. Not a job. It was that moment.