It’s long past midnight high up in paradise, and Atilio Csik’s hand-rolled cigarette has cast a wispy haze across his mountain cabin. Atilio washes down the smoke with a gulp of red wine, then continues to regale three eager city slickers with a patient profile of his life in the mountains.

He’s no raconteur – preferring to explain the right of public access to rivers and lakes rather than to wax on about the adventures that have coloured his 28 years in the mountains – but he plainly likes conversation. At 1:30am, with only a few amber lights still glowing, Atilio finishes his wine, and sets off to bed. He will wake up long before sunrise the next morning, setting off on one of his occasional journeys out of the mountains and in to town.

Photo By: Eric Benson

Every day of the year, Atilio’s home, a wooden cabin perched above the Río Azul, is open to throngs of hikers seeking a warm meal, mate, and a place to the rest their heads. Refugio Cajón del Azul, the public name of Atilio’s home, is set against the startling beauty of the Andean Comarca of the 42nd Parallel, a mountainous area west of El Bolsón and Lago Puelo that has become of one Argentina’s most treasured wilderness sanctuaries.

In 1960, the Club Andino Piltriquitron (CAP) was founded to help open these mountains to those who felt their call most strongly. CAP began with only a few refugios (the name given to these South American alpine hiking huts) but has now swelled to become a confederation of 11 with a network of trails crisscrossing the peaks and valleys of the region. Most of the CAP refugios are privately owned and operated, gaining entry into the CAP network based on their adherence to the group’s governing philosophies, which emphasise conservation and low-impact, non-exploitative, alpine tourism.

Photo By: Eric Benson

On an early December trip to the region, I made the trek up Piltriquitron, carelessly underestimating the snow and freezing winds at the top. I arrived back at the refugio with a growling stomach and numb fingers. Inside, I found a crackling fire, oven-cooked pizza, and the refugio’s own home-brewed beer.

Camping is all well and good, but stumbling off the frigid summit of a mountain into a cabin where you can get a hearty pizza and a few pints strikes me as the ideal mix of stark nature and rugged civilisation.

My experience in Atilio Csik’s refugio, Cajón del Azúl, was no different. Cajón del Azul lies a three-hour trek from Wharton, a place that is nothing more than a four-way intersection an hour’s bus ride from the centre of El Bolsón. The hike up is spectacular – the trail winds along the side of the strikingly turquoise Rio Azul as it cascades down from its glacial source.

Photo By: Adam Bloch

Thirty minutes into the hike, you find yourself making a perilous crossing of two bridges that, in my mind, have come to define the word ‘rickety’ (think ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’, subtract a few planks from the bridge and stop worrying about the crocodiles).

Once you cross these treacherous obstacles, you find yourself deep in the forest, occasionally peeking out at the river and the rest of the Comarca range as you make the steady ascent towards the refugio.

The final approach to Cajón de Azul evokes a sense of fairy-tale wonder. You’ve been navigating perilous bridges, scrambling over rock faces, and trudging up and down an endless series of heavily wooded hills, and suddenly you find yourself in a bucolic clearing with a vegetable garden, a bright green lawn, and an immaculate log cabin.

Photo By: Eric Benson

It has a perfect, somewhat eerie beauty. When I knocked on the door, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a grinning wolf dressed in an old woman’s rumpled garb.

Cajón del Azul does have its own grinning wolf, but he’s of the most benevolent sort. Atilio, with his wizened face and full white beard, has a mythic air about him that is reinforced by the romantic arc of his life story.

The scion of Hungarian immigrants in Buenos Aires, Atilio left the bustle of the city behind at the age of 27, purchased the property on which Cajón del Azul currently sits, and began a life that of rugged isolation that would put Henry David Thoreau to shame. For 12 years, he lived exclusively off the land, raising crops, livestock, and his own family, before converting his home into a refugio in 1992.

Like Refugio Piltriquitron, Cajón del Azul is a careful mix of wilderness and bare bones humanity. There’s electricity, but it depends on a series of old car batteries. The lights in the central room range from dim to dimmer as the batteries slow lose their charge. Every few hours there is a brief blackout before Atilio or one of his staff members hooks a new battery into the system. Then, the flickering towards darkness resumes again.

Photo By: Eric Benson

There are hot showers at Cajón del Azul, but they’re only available for a few hours at night. The oven is wood burning, and specialises in pouring out rich stews and warm bread – the perfect complements to the starry mountain night.

This fairy tale existence, however, is in peril. Tourism to the area is unrestricted, and in the height of the January season, Atilio has found himself playing host to as many as 280 guests. It’s his policy never to turn a hiker away, a decision that reflects his idealistic hospitality, but also results in overcrowding.

Lest anyone think that financial concerns drive this inclusiveness, Atilio says that when the place is packed, he lowers prices if he doesn’t think the experience is up to par. I didn’t need to hear this to know that the bottom line had little to do with the workings of Cajón del Azul.

When my hiking companion asked if he could buy one of the Cajón del Azul T-shirts that Atilio and his three staff members were wearing, Atilio gave a soft smile and replied that he regretted that he couldn’t please my friend, but that ‘he didn’t like engaging in that sort of commerce’. My friend was never so pleased to have been refused service.

Despite this anti-commercial posture, Cajón del Azul and the rest of the CAP refugios have embraced tourism even as worries mount that the growing numbers may compromise the area’s splendour.

Photo By: Eric Benson

“The era of massive tourism coincides with the era of greatest risk to the forest,” Atilio said in our late night conversation – he pointed to the increasing number of fires that have torched the region in the last 15 years, many due to human carelessness, and to the growing incursion of foreign plants that has crowded out fragile local species.

Protecting the Comarca from the full brunt of human development relies on the continued collaboration of public and private forces. All the land in the Comarca is privately owned, much of it by cattle and sheepherders who use the high plateau as pasture area. Yet, all of the land in the Comarca is under the stewardship of the provincial government. If a landowner in the Comarca wants to do so much as fell a tree on his property, he must consult with a provincial officials before legally carrying it out. It means a lot of hassle, but also a real commitment to conservation.

Even in this carefully controlled zone, the balance of tourism and nature is a constant concern. In the last ten years, three new mountain houses have cropped up within an hour’s walk of Cajón del Azul, threatening to inflate the already high number of visitors.

One of the new mountain houses, Refugio El Retamal, is a year-round CAP refugio that is a kind of sister facility to Cajón del Azul. The other two houses, La Playita and La Tronconada, occupy a more shadowy area in the Comarca landscape.

Photo By: Eric Benson

Neither La Playita nor La Tronconada has been granted entry into the CAP, and both advertise their presence with the commerce-promoting signs that Atilio shuns. One of the bylaws of the CAP is that refugio owners should ‘impede the creation of other similar mountain houses in the areas serviced by already existing refugios ’. It would be silly to cast the owners of these new mountain huts as crass capitalists, but their decision to do business on the mountain poses another risk to the delicate balance between access and exploitation.

While the Comarca is an increasingly popular summer destination, it’s worth remembering that its exposure to humanity is limited almost completely to a two-month window. In the winter, Atilio spends his time in almost complete isolation at Cajón del Azul, working on carpentry projects and relaxing amid the snowy splendour. The only interruptions to his solitude are visits from his daughter and the friends and neighbours who occasionally make the snowy trek from El Bolsón. It’s rare though, that Atilio sees more than 30 people in these winter months.

The fairy tale charm of the refugios of the Comarca stems from the solitude that they maintain even as tens, even hundreds, of hikers file in and out of their walls. There were 40 other guests staying with me during my night at Cajón del Azul, but as the lights flickered and the last wisps of smoke drifted off of Atilio’s cigarette, it could have been the dead of winter. These mountains, threatened as they are by human incursion, have the spectacular power to make you feel small without feeling lonely. Here, I’ve experienced joyous solitude amid the pleasures of company – a feeling that maybe only a wooden cabin on the side of a mountain can bring.

A massive ‘white elephant’, a road that stops in mid air and a man made island with a building on it that looks like it belongs in The Smurfs.

What is it that connects these things? The answer is that they are all unfinished constructions that can be stumbled across on a wander around Buenos Aires.

In recent years Buenos Aires, and indeed the rest of Argentina, has been experiencing a development boom. It has in fact been described by property developer John Boyle as the largest in the nation’s history.

But it is the regularity with which ambitious projects seem to be left unfinished that grabs the attention of so many. Dramatic empty buildings with no windows or doors, unfinished developments that seemed so impossible that it is a marvel that the project was ever approved, even roads that stop in mid air… All can be seen in Argentina’s capital and all lead to one big question: how is this possible?

The San Telmo Road to Nowhere. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

The economic crash is often cited as a major cause of Argentina’s unfinished projects, and this does make for a poetic explanation. A decaying shell of a building is certainly a dramatic symbol of Argentina’s rapid economic demise in 2001. Unfortunately however the economic crash does not always represent a reasonable explanation. The dates quite simply do not add up.

Poor financial management is a frequently speculated explanation, as is financial and political corruption. Some have even suggested that Argentine culture is to blame, saying that the laid back, unrestrained nature of society is partly responsible for the premature abandonment of these projects.

This argument, although popular, has been described by sociologist Adrian Krupnik as ‘risky’. Indeed, as fellow sociologist Guillermo Jajanovich puts it: “To refer to the mentality of a nation in the hour of explanation of unfinished projects is not constructive or accurate.”

So what really lies behind this phenomenon? Even if for no other reason than pride, you would think that to be in charge of a development and then leave it unfinished, would seem like an unattractive idea. Money and politics certainly have some part to play in it and through the exploration of some bizarre and dramatic examples I hope to find a more worthy answer than ‘oh, that’s just Argentina’.

White Elephant

White elephant – ‘A supposedly valuable possession whose value is outweighed by its cost.’

The building, now known as the ‘white elephant’, that resides in the shantytown in Barrio General Belgrano had the potential to be anything but. Built during the first Perón era it was designed to be a hospital for people suffering from tuberculosis. Newspaper Clarín stated that, standing 15 storeys tall, the hospital would have been the biggest of its kind in Latin America. Instead the building was never finished; in fact it was not even adorned with windows or doors.

The White Elephant. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Eduardo Lonardi’s ‘capture of Córdoba’ in 1955 which instigated the downfall of President Perón also signalled the end of work on the massive hospital. An understanding of why the newly empowered military was motivated to halt the construction of the hospital is a difficult thing to achieve. However, the story of the ‘white elephant’ is nonetheless extremely useful in exposing an element of Argentine politics that has played a large part in leaving so much of this city unfinished; the continuity, or rather, as Jajanovich puts it, discontinuity of political process.

Instability has never been too far away from Argentine society. Just a momentary glance around you and the results of the economic ups and downs are easily seen, but it is the political turmoil that is so significant here. From 1816 and the declaration of independence to the modern day, Argentine politics has seen a tussle between democracy and dictatorship: Yrigoyen-Uriburu, Perón-Lonadi, so on and so forth.

People living around the White Elephant building. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

In fact, between 1929 and 1976 alone there were six military coups. Even when power was not being won and lost through coups, the form of government was still changing at a rather high frequency. As Jajanovich says, there has often been ‘a lack of continuity of the democratic regime’. This historical context alone illustrates the simple fact that governments, ideologies and personnel were frequently being displaced. It is perhaps unsurprising that numerous projects have remained unfinished in the light of such political inconsistency.

Not To Plan But Not All Bad

While the hospital was never finished, and this was undoubtedly a loss to the city of Buenos Aires, it is interesting to note that 53 years later the space is being put to good use. Initially the ground floor became a home for 54 families who had been hit hard by the economic struggles that have haunted so many in Argentina in recent times. However on the 4th December 2007, the ‘white elephant’ was passed over from the porteño government into the hands of Las Madres de Plaza de Mayo, a human rights organisation that was started by mothers of the disappeared following the dirty war. The Madres have since made the run down building home to a health centre and two schools, including the Universidad Popular that allows people from one of the city’s most impoverished neighbourhoods to gain a higher education.

The White Elephant. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

The impact that the Madres have had should not be underestimated. One resident described her gratitude by saying: “We give thanks to the mothers because everyone passes by here saying that they are going to do things and they never do.” However on top of this it perhaps illustrates another ‘Argentine characteristic’ that is more positive than empty buildings and unfinished constructions. That is that very rarely are these unfinished projects left to decay. The ‘white elephant’ is just one example of something positive being found in the aftermath of a failed project.

The Road To Nowhere

Nestled in the corner of San Telmo near Parque Lezama is a motorway that splits into roads going in different directions. The right hand one continues happily on its way and is the well known and well used ‘Autopista 25 de Mayo’. The left hand side stops in mid air. No details are spared. The slabs of concrete, the steel cables are all there as if construction was stopped half way through a working day.

So why or how did this happen? The answer turned out to be very difficult to track down and very, very simple. Initially the Ministry of Urban Development’s explanation was straightforward:

“There is no road that stops in mid air. It doesn’t exist.”

“There is no road that stops in mid air. It doesn’t exist.” Photo By: Kate Stanworth

For obvious reasons this was not a satisfactory explanation. Before long however, the secretary to Sergio Levit, head of Urban Development, soon rang back to offer a more detailed explanation.

“The road was going to connect ‘Autopista 25 de Mayo’ with another motorway but then it was decided to be unnecessary.”

For a moment this seemed to be a normal and decent explanation. But then it began to strike me as odd. Is it normal to begin construction on a major motorway before deciding whether or not it is absolutely necessary? But there is honestly no more to the explanation. No corruption, no economic problems or financial mismanagement. Bad planning and bad planning alone is the cause of this dramatic road in San Telmo.

Or perhaps it is just a different, and it must be said less efficient, outlook on construction. The connecting road was necessary and construction began; it was then decided it was not so necessary and construction stopped: simple.

As Jajanovich pointed out, not all urban projects and developments can be explained according to strictly political causes.

A Sporting Island?

The ‘Ciudad Deportiva de Boca Juniors’ – or as it is now known ‘Ex-Ciudad’ – is another example of a project, which although did not materialise as planned, has not gone entirely to waste.

In January 1965, Boca Juniors were granted 40 hectares of the Río de la Plata in order to build a ‘sporting island’. The land was gifted to Boca Juniors although not without conditions. Law No. 16.575 stated that Boca Juniors ‘must build a stadium with a minimum capacity of 140,000, auxiliary fields, basketball courts, tennis courts, a gymnasium, swimming pools and athletic tracks.’ The decree, which was ratified by the senate and congress, went on to say that if Boca Juniors were to fail to achieve the required construction then the land would once again become public land.

Ex-Ciudad Deportiva de Boca. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

In 1979, 14 years after government decree gave the land to Boca, it was decided that Boca Juniors had ‘fallen in breach of Law No. 16.575’.

This is when things start to be handled in a manner that is less than straight forward. The land was indeed repossessed and passed back into government hands. However Boca were allowed to continue with the construction and upon completion were to receive ownership of the land once more. The previously mentioned construction obligations were changed so as not to include the stadium itself and to top it all off, the land that they would now receive was increased by 19 hectares to a total of 59.

Fast forward another three years, to 1982, and Boca have been handed legal ownership of the land despite the fact that still nothing has been finished. One representative for the Association for the Reserve, whose involvement is due to the fact the island sits next to a nature reserve, summed up the fact that the government requirements on construction were ignored by all parties when he nonchalantly said: “We already know, this type of clause is never fulfilled.”

The bottom line is that today, over 40 years later, the island is still not finished. It is the events over the last 40 years however that give insight into why it was not finished and perhaps to why other constructions have gone the same way.

Boca Juniors press department simply stated that ‘it happened ages ago, no one here remembers it now’. But what really caused this project to go unfinished? The fact that the land was obtained without charge and was sold for US$22m could certainly raise a few eyebrows as to who exactly profited. According to ‘Association for the Reserve’: “Many people who had invested in the sporting island were left empty handed.” But perhaps for some it was more profitable for the land to remain undeveloped.

Clearly, the political leniency played a major role; standards and requirements were repeatedly set and then repeatedly not met. Yet nothing was ever done in response to the constant failure to meet the demands. The fact that this was able to happen over a construction project between Boca Juniors, one of the biggest football clubs in the nation, and the national government does not bode well for smaller constructions amongst less powerful parties.

Just like with the unfinished road one must also question the merit of the original project. Put simply, the plan was to build a 40 hectare (today it is in fact 70 hectare) island and put a huge stadium along with other sporting sites on it. Apart from the fact that idea to replace the existing Bombanera stadium (a stadium described by pundits and fans alike as ‘the one and only’ or ‘irreplaceable’) was dubious, there is another question that comes to mind: who builds what would be the largest stadium in Latin America, and perhaps the world, on a man-made island? Land-based sporting arenas are difficult projects as it is, just look at Wembley in London or Slavia Prague’s stadium which took three decades to complete, one could certainly argue that the sporting island of Boca Juniors was always a plan made to fail.

Finally, there is that all familiar thread of political discontinuity running through this story throwing spanners in the works. The sporting island project was only truly killed by the arrival of a new Boca president, Martin Noel, in 1981 and it was all very simple. Noel was not as enthused by the construction of a stadium on an island as his predecessor Alberto Armando and so the dream was over.

Outside the White Elephant. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Boca Juniors Football Club shares a political timeline with the government of Argentina, a history of chopping and changing. In the 103-year history of the football club, Boca Juniors have had 32 presidential changes giving each president an average of three years at the helm. As can been seen with government projects such as the ‘White Elephant’, things are a lot harder to finish when continuity and consistency is such a rarity.

Not To Plan But Not All Bad; Part 2

The outlook for this man-made island is not as bleak as it once was. The land has since passed hands once again, this time for US$51.5m, having been bought by the Argentine property company IRSA. They, in partnership with George Soros, have published plans to turn the island into a ‘city within a city’. With a moat of sorts already in existence, IRSA plan to make a high security, high spec community where the rich and famous can live away from the hustle, bustle and poverty of the city. The plans are controversial for obvious reasons, but once again it is an illustration of a project growing out of the ashes of another.

Ironically, to date this project has also been delayed. This time by the economic problems following the crash in 2001.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

In the book ‘The Rest’, Ruben Szuchmacher explores the phenomenon of unfinished constructions talking about individual culpability and saying “we feel their acts, their decisions, their negligence.” It is certainly true that single people have had a great impact; plans changed or ended on the whim of individuals.

But is it that simple? The ‘spectacular crash’, as historian Blustein puts it, bought ‘social and political chaos’ which cannot be underestimated in the more recent examples. Yet it seems to be the political systems, or lack of consistency within the political systems, that has most contributed to this ‘Argentine tendency’.

Perhaps then, with the period of stability that the nation is now enjoying, empty buildings and unfinished roads will become a thing of the past.

In February 2007, a fire in Buenos Aires’ worst shantytown highlighted the problems of housing in the capital. A year on, despite government pledges, little has been done to improve the living situation of the country’s most poor and vulnerable, and the housing deficit is bigger than ever.

During the early hours of 8th February 2007, a fire ravaged Villa Cartón, a shantytown built under a motorway flyover in the neighbourhood of Villa Soldati, in the south of the capital. Despite nearly 400 families’ homes being destroyed, no one was seriously injured, although 170 people were treated for the early symptoms of asphyxia, minor cuts and light burns.

Just after the fire at Villa Cartón. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Whilst the fire did not destroy the entire villa, the government decided to bulldoze the remaining houses and re-locate all of the shanty dwellers, saying nobody should live in such conditions.

Then-mayor, Jorge Telerman, said at the time: “The fire has exposed our worst problems to us. People are living in undignified conditions… there are limits that should not be passed.”

Just after the fire at Villa Cartón. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Construction work soon began on temporary accommodation, and the families were moved to giant emergency tents in Parque Roca as an interim measure whilst the building was underway. It was emphasised that these prefabs were to be a temporary measure, to last for a maximum of six months, and permanent houses would be built.

Some residents at the time were cynical of the pledges, as the decision to relocate the inhabitants of the cardboard shanty had been made before the fire, but it no timetable had been set in stone. One resident, Silvia, said her family had been waiting for a new home for months, and there was only movement after the fire destroyed her home.

Mirta, another resident, echoed Silvia’s fears, adding “the government will build us temporary homes then forget about us,” pointing out the victims of two smaller fires in 2006 were still waiting for the houses promised to them by the government.

Unfortunately it seems both Silvia and Mirta’s predictions have come true.

Returning to meet the former Villa Cartón residents now, it is difficult to say if the temporary housing they are living in is better or worse than the higgledy-piggledy shantytown they used to call home. The rows of pre-fabricated houses look stark in the bright summer light, and inside the houses are hot. Some residents have cut windows out of the sides of the homes to create a bit more air, but only the ones on the ends of the rows have that advantage. The corrugated roofs keep the heat in during the summer, making for stagnant motionless air, but keep do not work the same way in the winter, which they say is far colder and worse, with the homes remaining freezing.

Most of the homes consist of a single room, and in some cases two or three families share this space. The bathrooms are located outside, and whilst basic they seem good enough, until one of the residents, Mabel tells me there has been no running water for five months. It stopped working one day, she says, and despite numerous pleas to the government to come and fix the problem, nobody ever came.

Just after the fire at Villa Cartón. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Work has started on the permanent homes, but the residents are cynical about how long it will take for them to be ready – after all, the prefabs were supposed to be a short-term solution, and most of the families have been living there for almost a year.

“We have been abandoned. They say the homes will be ready in six months, but everything is supposed to be done in six months. We were only supposed to be here six months. We think it will be more likely to be two years – work has barely begun on the new homes,” says Lydia, who is currently sharing her home with two other family, making for 12 people under one roof, with no room for privacy.

Just after the fire at Villa Cartón. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Mabel echoes her thoughts, adding that the location of the community is a big issue for most of the residents – they are now on the far side of Parque Roca, next to the Riachuelo river, on the very edge of the capital. The prefabs are out of sight, and, the residents believe, very much out of mind. The situation also makes it difficult for those who work – not many buses go by the community, and the ones that do are not regular and don’t run on weekends.

Safety is also big worry for the residents, as the rows of prefabs are isolated behind the park – when the buses aren’t running they take shortcuts through the park but there are many stories of people being threatened on their way home, and tales of rapes and killings that have taken place there, although not to any of the residents. Going out at night is not much of an option, they explain, as getting home is difficult and dangerous.

The last government intervention was in August, just two months after Telerman’s re-election campaign ended in defeat to Mauricio Macri.

And the promises of the previous government have not been kept, and Telerman’s ‘battle against marginalisation’, an ambitious 18-month plan to remove all of the capital’s shantytowns, has been all but forgotten.

Some may call the idea of eradicating the city’s problems in 18 short months ludicrous – after all, problems that have been around for over 100 years will not disappear overnight.

Just after the fire at Villa Cartón. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

A history of overcrowding

Buenos Aires has a long history of housing problems. In fact 100 years before the fire in Villa Cartón made the problems hit the headlines, albeit briefly, was the only ever Tenants’ Strike in the history of Argentina.

Back in 1907, the same problems existed in the city: the impossibility for vast sectors of the population to access dignified housing, the high cost of renting, and scarce public policies aimed at supporting or defending the rights of those who didn’t own their own homes.

The problems of 100 years ago and today have similar roots – mass migration to the capital, although a century ago this was in the form of immigration from Europe. Between 1870 and 1930, six million foreigners arrived in Argentina.

These new arrivals came with high hopes of being able to find land to cultivate, but by the turn of the century the prices had gone up due to the production and export of meat and cereal, and the majority of the land was owned by few, generally in the form of large industrial farms.

So the immigrants ended up living in the large cities, mostly Buenos Aires, and working in manual jobs. The cities, however, were not prepared for this influx of people, and the lack of living space soon became a problem.

‘Conventillos’, large houses on one or two floors, with many rooms, mostly measuring 4×4m around a central patio, quickly became a solution. Single rooms would be rented out to an entire family, and the family would sleep, eat and do everything in that one room. The bathroom would be shared, although according to the 1904 census, 22% of the conventillos didn’t have any sort of sanitation or a bathroom.

A prefab home for the former residents
of Villa Cartón. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Despite these appalling conditions, the census showed that 10% of the capital’s population lived in conventillos, and the rooms were much sought after. As a result, the owners were able to enforce strict house rules, inspecting the properties at any moment, with the smallest infraction leading to eviction. The tenants had little option but to put up with the rules, as housing was expensive and scarce.

Until August 1907, that is, when the municipal government announced that taxes would increase in 1908. As a result, landlords immediately raised rent in anticipation of these extra overheads. The residents of one conventillo in Barracas decided it was too much to demand more rent for such dire living conditions, and refused to pay their rent, declaring a strike and handing over a document demanding certain conditions be met before they would start paying again, including the suspension of three months deposit, lower rent and better sanitation. The momentum quickly caught on, spreading across the country. In Buenos Aires alone, some 120,000 people participated, around 10% of the city’s population.

The landlords refused to back down and so did the tenants, and the standoff intensified, culminating in the death of a 15-year-old boy at the end of October in a confrontation between the strikers and police. Around 15,000 people joined in his funeral procession across the capital, and again the police responded violently. The government brought in a residency law, deporting the ‘anarchistic’ ringleaders.

Towards the end of November, the movement died down, with each conventillo coming to its own arrangement. In many cases the demands were met by the owners, whilst in others the tenants were left on the street.

Same today?

Wind the clock forward a hundred years and what has changed?

As shown in the case of the residents of Villa Cartón, there is still a huge housing deficit, affecting the poorest people. Migration to the cities continues, either from the countryside across Argentina, or from other South American countries, notably Paraguay and Bolivia. The Argentines coming from the countryside are generally of indigenous or criollo descent, and in some cases have been evicted from their land with little or no compensation to make way for farming. The immigrants from Argentina’s northern neighbours also make up a large proportion of the current residents of many of the main city’s shantytowns.

Prefab houses for the former residents of Villa Cartón. Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Arguably, residents have gone from conventillos to shantytowns, and in a way their situation has worsened as now they have less power – before the withholding of rent would be a trump card they could use to make changes happen. As nobody pays rent to live in a shanty, the most poor and vulnerable are very much dependent on policy changes for improvements to happen. And these are not forthcoming.

In fact, the situation has deteriorated so much that in July 2004 a three-year housing crisis was declared by the Buenos Aires city government. It has been extended and is still in place today.

In October last year, a report on the housing crisis that had been made by the Buenos Aires ombudsman was released. It said: “The number of families who are residing in informal or irregular houses is extensive and growing by the day. In 2002 it is calculated that more than 100,000 people were living in emergency shantytowns, 200,000 are in taken buildings, 70,000 are living in tenement houses, (of which 50% are in an unstable condition for lack of paying the rent), 70,000 are living in lodgings and 120,000 subsidised housing.”

And the problem is growing. In 2006, 19,000 more families were added to the number listed as having housing emergency.

In 2004, the government created a Emergency Housing Fund, to deal with the crisis. Another initiative was PAFSIC, a programme for families who find themselves on the streets, which providing a subsidy of $450 per month over the course of six months, to help them get out of the emergency situation. Critics say this is not a long-term solution, and at the end of the six months, many families have not found a viable housing option and find themselves on the street again. As soon as the six months is up, the families are just added back into the statistics. Others point out that for such a paltry sum, it is nigh on impossible to find a safe place for a family to live.

In essence, there is no serious national housing policy, aimed at making real changes and preventing this cycle. This can be shown by the statistics: the number of people applying for the PAFSIC scheme since it was started in 2006 has risen almost 600%. Many point out that it would be cheaper for the government to build and provide housing than to keep paying subsidies.

And yet whilst the solutions remain far-off, evictions continue – many of them government-backed. According to another report by the city ombudsman on 21st September 2007, an estimated that 2,300 families more would be evicted by the end of the year.

The report states: “The situation of collapse that we are seeing now is the result of years of inefficient policies which have demonstrated a lack of capability to take on and resolve this problem. Essentially, it is the result of a way of looking at this problem as something climatic, an episodic product of a temporary situation.”

Shared dreams

However, one project is stepping up to the challenge. The Madres de Plaza de Mayo (Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, a human rights organisation set up by women after their children were disappeared during the last dictatorship) have a building project.

This started in Villa 15, based in Mataderos in the west of the capital, in 2006. Since then, 24 homes have been created and another 48 are nearly finished. The momentum has spread, with 500 homes under construction in Piletón, and close to 300 underway close to Parque Roca, as a permanent solution for the residents of Villa Cartón.

The Madres lobby the government into using its money for social housing, and then run the building projects, with people from the shanties themselves working on the construction, under the guidance of experts.

This provides many of the residents with training and a real sense of purpose in constructing their own future, whilst providing a permanent solution to their housing woes.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

However, the number of families provided with a housing solution via this means is paltry in comparison to the numbers of families still being evicted and living in unstable situations.

Since 1996 there has been talk of the ‘urbanisation’ of shantytowns, and nothing has happened. Telerman’s battle against marginalisation came to nothing, and workers from the Madres grumble that Macri has so far shown even less interest in resolving the housing crisis, currently being tied up in battles with the uniones.

But unless the government is willing to spend some money on improving the situation of the most poor and vulnerable, history may repeat itself again, and in another 100 years time we may well be in the same situation.

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.

Related

BluBlu.org

That’s the problem with small towns: the lack of choice. The long, enthralling drive from Salta had left us peckish, but a lack of options meant we had to wait for the curiously named ‘Los 3 Chinos’ restaurant to open at who-knows-what hour. No choice but to watch the handful of village kids spill onto the dirt football pitch. No choice but to watch lightning flash innocuously above the vast mountains. No choice but to place our beer on the jagged mud wall and amble onto the arena for a kick of the ball.

We had joined Ruta 40 that afternoon in Cachi, and made a tough decision not to stay in that beautiful, spotless town of cobbled streets and adobe houses whose low roofs ducked modestly beneath the grandeur of the sierra. We had given the romantic evening air of Cachi’s Plaza 9 de Julio a miss, and with it the chance of seeing the dying sun bathe the façade of Iglesia San José in deepening shades of gold.

Photo By: Elizabeth Clancy

But we did not regret swapping this for the play of morning light in Molinos, after the street-game laughter of boys and girls had given way to peaceful slumber in a $30 hospedaje. Taking its cue from Cachi, Molinos cast a calming spell that remained unbroken as we followed the Río Calchaquí south to Cafayate.

The winding, crushed-rock road commanded a slow pace, ideal for soaking up scenery and spotting roadside hitchers such as the San Carlos farmhand off home for siesta or the two girls escorting their wizened abuelita to a doctor’s appointment.

Photo By: Elizabeth Clancy

Along the route, the river kept the valley floor green and fresh, where elsewhere the elements had battered rock into otherworldly shapes, most notably the pink arrowheads of the Quebrada de las Flechas.

In Cafayate, we ditched the car in favour of bikes hired for the cost of an empanada, back-tracking up Ruta 40 to taste limey torrontés wine at the 150-year-old Bodega La Banda before a sobering dip in the retro town pool.

Where Molinos appealed for its simplicity, Cafayate was full of places to stay and reasons to linger. Indigenous stallholders sold everything from ceramics and Andean rugs to ponchos woven from the wool of the baby llamas we would later see roaming the puna between the mining town of San Antonio de los Cobres and the shimmering salt pans of the Salinas Grandes.

Photo By: Elizabeth Clancy

Instead of having to wait for the 3 Chinos – who, incidentally, never showed up – we could take our pick of places to delve into north-eastern cuisine.

Upon good advice, we ended up with local malbec and barbecued baby goat at a packed house at El Patio, where dreams evoked by the timeless landscapes were sung over the relentless strumming of a guitar.

Photo By: Elizabeth Clancy

‘Patagonia’s most present characteristic is its endless expanse of nothingness, both an attraction and a lesson in boredom for the overland traveller’, I read as the plane veered its course towards El Calafate.

Having found a direct flight out of Ushuaia for the same price as a 2-day bus/ weather-dependent ferry/bus/overnight stop in ‘wind-pummelled service town’/bus option, I had, happily, forfeited the first leg of the Ruta 40 that starts in Río Gallegos.

Instead, watching the ill-defined gravel road snake its path through the wide, brown Patagonian plains proved no better introduction to the utter sense of isolation that both the route and its setting inspire.

And anyways, I’m told that this is where it starts to get exciting. From here the road runs parallel to the Andean cordillera (range), crossing some of Argentina’s most inaccessible parts and passing by some of its archaeological and geographical gems.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

None of these sparkle more brilliantly than the glaciers around El Calafate. This lake-side town is text-book ‘tourist’ – overpriced, overcrowded and tacky – it’s the nearby Perito Moreno and Los Glaciares national parks that pull the crowds.

By day the streets clear as visitors are either day-tripping to the parks or cramming themselves into the main street’s put upon supermarket, frantically stocking up on biscuits for the long journey out of town.

Obviously, you don’t come all this way not to go on a glacier safari. Taking a boat up close to the 60m-high wall of Perito Moreno or overlooking the snout of Upsala glacier – South America’s largest – it is hard to find the best camera angle or the right word to do the hunks of ice justice. Time to wheel out the big-gun adjectives – magnificent, awe-inspiring, breath-taking – that sort of thing.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

A three-hour side-step by bus takes you towards the jaggedy, granite peaks of the Fitz Roy Range and into the hills and meadows of El Chaltén. I found myself happy as a pig in clover in this magical little place – climbing mountains, camping in the wild, swimming in glacial lakes – this is the kind of setting where even the grubbiest of souls can get a good spring clean.

A week later I arrive back in El Calafate. My R40 adventure was about to begin.

There are three ways to tackle the road: hire a car (requires patience and cash, lots of – this is a very long drive and this option is frighteningly expensive); go on an organised four-day road trip (Overland Patagonia offer the trip from Nov – Mar for $950, food not included); or take the cheapest option and buy a bus ticket for $220 with El Chaltén Travel bus company – quite literally the only one that dares to go where others think it’s best not.

Divided into two 12-hour journeys, the first runs to Perito Moreno (town), where everyone, very cosily, stays at the same hostel that is booked and paid for when you by the ticket. Then you take another bus that heads toward the blessedly (trust me, it will seem this way when you get there) tarred and oh so sealed highways around El Bolsón, and then Bariloche.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Two hours into the first journey, I’d seen three Australian water pumps, two cars, a whole lot of steppe (shrub like plant that covers the ground) and the emergence of a battle of the wills on board the bus. Rude Dutch man opens roof window, it is hot and he needs to cool off. Nice French lady is being rained on by dust pouring in from outside, she shuts the window. Round One…

… Round Seven. I cast my mind back to a friend in Buenos Aires who laughed out loud in my face when I told him of my plans to take this part of the Ruta 40. With an irritating self-righteousness he had informed me that ‘they don’t have any buses that can manage that road, you have to go round it via Comodoro Rivadavia and Puerto Madryn on the Atlantic coast’. Ha! Look who has the last laugh now friend, I say to myself, seven-hour bottom ache just setting in and finding it hard to manipulate my lips into a smile, let alone shut them, after having inhaled so much dust.

Just in time before the rocking in chair/tugging at hair stage of boredom took hold, we make a stop at a rickety wooden estancia (farm), one of the very first I’d seen in over eight hours of travel. We all feast on home-baked (no shops round here) pie, go to the loo and scan the barren, dusty land looking for life. Nope, none there.

In fact, the only signs I spotted were the elderly couple who run the cafe, an ominous cow’s skull presiding over the doorway and a couple of pet monsters, sorry guanaco’s (deer-like creature native to these parts) – one of which attacked me and sent me running back to the dreaded bus.

Later that night, we arrived in the pretty, lake-side oasis of Los Antiguos – world-famous for its annual cherry festival. With a sense of timing that so often accompanied me on my travels, I had arrived a day late: cherry town one day, cherry-pip town the next. But, thankfully, by the time I left town I had easily managed to devour my fair share of the glorious red fruit.

Trips to see the rock art at the ‘Cuevas de Las Manos’ (Hand Caves) can be arranged from here or from Perito Moreno (town) which is just a half hour away and back on the R40. Dating back to 7370BC, these polychrome rock paintings cover recesses in the near vertical walls with thousands of imprints of human hands. One of them has six fingers! See if you can spot it.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Heading back to the hostel in Perito Moreno that evening, I catch sight of a big painted wall on the main street. The picture is of a man waving his fist triumphantly in the air under the words ‘Perito Moreno is radical!’ It doesn’t take me long to realise that this is political propaganda, not a message from the local tourist board. Luckily, the bus north leaves early.

The second leg of the journey was much like the first – lots of steppe and few cars. Interestingly, I saw a dead armadillo on the side of the road.

Good reading intentions were soon set aside. My ‘Complete History of Latin America’ and my friend’s copy of Cervantes in Spanish quickly found their rightful places wedged between the seats with the biscuit crumbs. It was time to surrender to the onboard entertainment programme, this was no time to be fussy. A quasi-religious teen-snowboarding movie and two Vin Diesel films coloured/ruined the journey, but nicely passed the time.

That evening we pulled up in the town of El Bolsón – fruity, beery and lovely. After a couple of weeks spent drinking raspberry juice and working on a chacra (farm), it was time take the last leg of the R40 to Mendoza via Bariloche. Here, the road is like any other and several bus companies do the job.

Leaving in the late afternoon we traveled far enough north to see the sun set over Chile’s perfect conical volcanoes. If there is one thing you remember about Patagonia, it’s the sky. Endless streaks of amber and red soon disappeared into the twilight, revealing yet another night’s sky dripping with stars.

Nearing Mendoza the next morning, I woke to a syrupy-sweet coffee and the awesome spectacle of mighty Aconcagua – the tallest peak in the Western Hemisphere – looming in the distance.

For El Chaltén bus timetables www.thetravellersguru.com
For Ruta 40 Travel Packages www.overlandpatagonia.com

By Kristie Robinson

During October and November 1947, 1,500 indigenous people from the Pilagá tribe were killed in a campaign that started near the town of Las Lomitas and spread throughout the province of Formosa.

Despite the discovery of common graves more than two years ago, the Argentine government is still refusing to recognise the killing took place, and ‘official’ history taught in schools in the area makes no mention of the fact that half of the aboriginal race was wiped out in under a month.

Five common graves have been found in Formosa province, yet there is no state funding to help the anthropologists continue excavating. One of the lawyers fighting to open an official investigation into the massacre is Carlos Alberto Díaz, who even goes so far as to call the killings ‘genocide’, lamenting that in Argentina, despite much progress, there are still ‘human rights for white people, and different human rights for the indigenous’.

Click to view slide show – Photos by Kate Stanworth

The Past

In 1947, Argentina’s famous president Juan Domingo Perón had been in power for a year. He and his starlet wife Eva Duarte, more widely known as Evita, were popular and optimistic about making sweeping social changes.

Much of the country was poor, and Formosa was no exception. The indigenous communities living there, the Wichi, Toba and Pilagá, were very much at the bottom of the pile. As their territory was nationalised, these nomadic tribes, traditionally hunter-gatherers, found they had less and less room to work as they previously had done. Unaccustomed to living in one area and working the land, many faced severe poverty and starvation.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

When the Pilagá people were offered work on the sugar plantations in neighbouring Salta province, they felt it would perhaps be a way to provide for their families and accepted the labour. The entire community of over 3,000 people walked more than 200km along the railways tracks to Salta. The trek lasted many days.

Upon arrival at the plantations, they found the owners refused to honour the wage they had been promised. Additionally, instead of being paid in pesos, the work would be paid in ‘bales’, a sort of voucher system in which the salary could only be spent on certain products in certain places, highlighting the subordination of the indigenous workers to the landowners.

The Pilagá refused to work under such conditions, and had little choice but to turn around and make the long journey back to Formosa. 1947 was a very dry year, and there was scare food to be found along the way. When the more vulnerable started falling sick, the group decided to head to Las Lomitas, where Luciano Córdoba, the local priest, had always been good to them.

They stopped in a place known as Rincón Bomba, a settlement just outside of the town, right in the heart of Formosa province.

After a round journey of some 500km, may of the tribe were weak and ill. The caciques (tribal leaders) went to speak to the authorities of Las Lomitas and ask for assistance. At first the local community, a mixture of criollos and people of European descent, was open to helping the Pilagá, providing them with food and supplies.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

However, by the middle of winter, the rains had not come and provisions were scarce for everyone. The local community became hostile towards the aboriginals. The governor of Formosa was told of the problems and asked the central government for humanitarian aid. Perón responded by sending a train up to Formosa with three wagons, one with food, one with medicines and one with clothes for the Pilagá. The train arrived in Formosa city, but due to bureaucratic hold ups sat for ten days in the station. The Las Lomitas police chief pressed for the goods to be forwarded on to the town, and after another delay, the train arrived. By this point there was only two wagons – the one with medicine never arrived, most of the wagon containing the clothing was empty and all of the food was in a bad condition, decaying and rotten, having been kept in an un-refrigerated container for two weeks.

Despite the state of the produce, when it arrived at the beginning of October, it was given to the Pilagá people anyway. Already malnourished and weak from their long journey, many could not cope with the rotten food and within hours of consumption began to fall ill, and die. Some 50 people are believed to have died due to poisoning overnight.

In the meantime, the Pilagá had been doing rain dances to try and bring the rains that were desperately needed to enable them to live off the land. The strange rituals frightened the townspeople, however, and rumours spread that there would be an indigenous attack. Díaz explains: “Such rumours were common during the beginning of the 20th century, and often used as an excuse to oppress or even kill the aboriginals.”

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

When two of the caciques went to talk to the head of Las Lomitas, angry at their treatment, it only seemed to confirm the fears of the residents. Such an attack was deemed to be imminent, and overnight the Pilagá found themselves surrounded by gendarmes (the border police), with three or four posts of machine gunners, and two mortar stations.

According to Díaz, at around dusk on 10th October 1947, the sub-commander of the gendarmerie gave the order to start firing at the community, and by dawn some 200-250 Pilagá had been killed.

Despite intensive investigations on Díaz’s part as to why the gendarmes started firing, it is still unclear. It could be there was a misinterpreted order and once one post of gunners started firing, the others retaliated. What is known, however, is that the indigenous people were very much second class citizens during this time, not seen as having rights as humans on any level, and there was pressure from the local community for the authorities to sort out the ‘indigenous problem’ that was on their doorstep.

Click to view slide show – Photos by Kate Stanworth

After the shootings, it seems to have been decided that there should be no witnesses to what had happened, and therefore no survivors were to be left. A month-long hunting campaign began to track down and kill survivors. By 5th November, when the genocide ended, an estimated 1,500 Pilagá had been killed.

According to survivors, the ones who escaped death were all the people who had chosen to flee north, towards Paraguay, when the killings began in Rincón Bomba. Those who fled east, west or south were caught up with and mostly died.

“We were lucky. We went the right way,” says Rosa Fernández, one of around 20 survivors still living in Formosa. She was just 12 years old at the time.

Others tell of the gendarmes catching up with them and ‘playing games’ whilst executing their kin. One such ‘game’ included shooting at a line of Pilagá people from the side, to see how many skulls one bullet could penetrate.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Marta Gomez recalls how her family was caught along with other people from her community and they were rounded up into a circle, to be shot by the machine gunners. They were saved by a man called Cureste, a local leather trader who had a good relationship with the Pilagá. He arrived on his horse and stopped the gendarmes, saying to them ‘if you are going to kill them, you will have to kill me first’.

They were spared, “but this was on the condition the cacique, who was with us, handed over his daughter, who was a virgin, to the gendarmes for the night,” Marta adds, looking at her hands. Cureste advised him to do it, as his presence as a white man would not guarantee their safety. The girl, who was just 12 or 13 years old, was handed over. She survived, and so did the rest of the group but ‘she was never the same again’.

Then at the beginning of November, just as quickly as the genocide began, it was all over. Ambrosa Gonzalez, who had fled with her mother and another woman some 80km north towards Paraguay, says: “Two men arrived on horses, a white man and an indigenous man. They told us the persecution was over and to come back to Las Lomitas.”

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

When asked if they believed the men, she says quietly “what choice did we have?” They had not been killed outright, and the presence of the indigenous man on horseback gave them some hope, and so they returned to the town.

Ambrosa will not look any of us in the eye. In fact, she barely lifts her eyes from the ground the entire time we are talking. I notice her black skirt, and Marta explains Ambrosa has worn black daily since the massacre, as a sign of respect for the family members she lost. She also refuses pass by the place where the massacre took place, instead taking the long road to Las Lomitas. “I saw my grandmother be shot there. I don’t want to see that place,” she says.

The indigenous man on horseback who helped find the survivors is Ceferiano Gomez. He tells of how he went around finding Pilagá people and bringing them back, trying to regroup the community.

Ceferiano says the Pilagá lived in fear for many years that it could happen again, and the gendarmes used this as a regular threat to the Pilagá for the following decades. The authorities also took all of the tools they had, for fear of reprisals, and the aboriginals couldn’t work, fish, hunt or do any of the things they were accustomed to.

Click to view slide show – Photos by Kate Stanworth

He tells of how the practice of raping indigenous girls also became common, with the threat of the murder of the family if they did not hand over their daughters. “Many daughters were kept hidden or taken to more remote Pilagá communities to be brought up. Other times families would lie and say the daughters were sick, but they were generally taken for the night anyway, to be ‘broken in’.”

The campaign led to around half of the race being wiped out, entire families lost. “There are few survivors. Our race has almost expired,” says Melitón Dominguez, son of a cacique, of his people.

Whilst in Las Lomitas the massacre is widely acknowledged to have happened, and the Pilagá tell this history to their children, outside of Formosa it is almost entirely unknown.

Two years ago, on 28th December 2005, the first grave was found, and a few months later in March 2006, the first mass grave found, with more than 30 bodies.

Lawyers Carlos Alberto Díaz and Julio César Garcia first heard of the massacre in 2005. They were incredulous that something could have happened and they, educated Argentines living in the neighbouring Chaco province, had not heard anything about it. They started investigating, travelling from their base in Resistencia to Salta and Formosa to research the killings. They found some newspaper archives from the time, and there was a small amount of coverage. But even in the clippings that acknowledge something took place, the number of Pilagá murdered is widely underestimated, and all contain the ‘official’ history: that the Pilagá started attacking the town and so the gendarmes retaliated.

The Present

The Pilagá community is still obviously marginalised and poor. The houses in Rincón Bomba are made of mud and sticks and, in some cases, rubbish – plastic sheets are walls, and filled plastic bottles act as anchors, holding the sheets down.

I am surprised to see electricity lines running from Las Lomitas. They are obviously a new addition, as the trees that have been chopped down to make room for the power cables are still green with leaves, lying on their sides next to the lines. Juan Luis, our translator, explains that as the elections approached, the local deputy ensured that visible improvements were made to the community. I comment that at least there is no longer a dictatorship, so if nothing more every four years they are going to see changes. He laughs, but somehow it’s not very funny.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

Despite the government’s seeming inability to provide the Pilagá with a basic standard of living and basic rights, there are individuals who have become advocates for them. Nazar, the local priest who has lived in the area for over 35 years, is works actively with the communities around Las Lomitas, and played a key role in helping the indigenous get rights to the land in 1984.

When asked about the situation of the aboriginals living in Formosa, he says: “The dominant class is still racist, and the indigenous fear that if they speak out they will have rights taken away again. The people they would be speaking out against are the ones who give them their benefits, their education, attend them when they go to hospital.

“In many ways the colonial system the Spanish Crown imposed some 500 years ago still exists.”

What changes are needed then, I ask. “People need to wake up. There needs to be a collective conscience, rights for everyone regardless, and people need to be willing to fight for them,” he replies.

Díaz agrees. He says when people talk about human rights they think of the dictatorship of the 1970s, and think things have changed for the better. Rights for indigenous are still unconsidered by the mainstream populace.

As he has found, even getting the massacre officially recognised by the authorities has proven a nightmare, something he believes is due to the fact that it was indigenous blood spilled.

Positive changes are happening however – last month on the 10th October anniversary the Pilagá were able to officially commemorate the massacre, and placed a monument for their people who had been killed. It is the first time such an act has taken place, and was seen as a milestone.

Nazar says: “Things are changing slowly. The monument is a big step forward, and ten years ago that would never have been possible. The community would not have been able to do it.”

However, as Díaz says, until things progress legally, there is still a long way to go. Even if it is too late to prosecute the perpetrators of the crime, the survivors, and Pilagá community in general, still deserve answers. None of them are aware why the massacre ended when it did, why the order was given to stop the genocide, or even what triggered it in the first place. Questions like these are ones Díaz and his team are trying to resolve, through an official investigation. But they are aware that as the likes of Melitón and Ambrosa grow older, time to provide them with the answers they deserve is running out.

The gendarmerie were asked to comment on the massacre, but did not respond.

When the economy minister Martin Lousteau announced a new regime of export taxes for agricultural products, he would have anticipated some grumblings in the countryside.

What he probably didn’t envisage was Argentina’s longest ever farming strike, the severing of the country’s main transport arteries, and the noisy return of cacerolas (saucepans) to protests on the streets of Buenos Aires for the first time since economic collapse in 2001-2.

The message to the government was stark and simple: enough is enough.

Photo By: Lindsey Hoshaw

The new scheme included a sharp hike in the retention rate for soy and sunseed products, to 44.1% and 39% respectively. The move would enable the equitable redistribution of the huge profits being made amid a global commodity boom and protect local consumers from soaring food prices, chimed the economy minister.

Meanwhile, taxes on wheat and corn were both cut to incentivise the production of these staple crops. In addition, the new tax rate would move in line with fluctuations in the international price for soy. This, explained Lousteau, would lend valuable price stability to a volatile industry.

The agricultural sector, however, views the scheme as an unjust confiscation of hard-earned revenues. "Who is going to make the effort to invest in their farm and cultivate crops when the government takes the money at harvest time?" asks Felix Lacroze, a landowner and director at agricultural organization Control Union who took to the streets in protest at the new policy.

With the export taxes now taking almost half of gross income, and costs accounting for nearly another 50%, farmers complain that they face all the risks without seeing any of rewards. "It runs contrary to any entrepreneurial vision for development," adds Lacroze.

Faced with this proposition, the response from the countryside was swift, as the four major national entities representing the agricultural sector announced a two-day strike. Road blocks soon sprang up on major transport routes, choking off supplies to major urban centres. Two days turned into a week, then a fortnight, and then an indefinite lockout, to be lifted only when the tax hikes were annulled.

The government stood firm. Lousteau spoke out to defend his policy and insisted that there would be no backing down. The agricultural sector has been the main beneficiary of the current economic model, he contended, with fuel subsidies keeping production costs low and an undervalued exchange rate improving the competitive position of Argentine producers relative to other countries. "Profitability in the soy industry is 15% lower in Brazil than in Argentina," Lousteau pointed out, "and without the retentions, inflation would be much higher."

President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner stepped up the confrontational stance with a speech that accused the ‘picketers of abundance’ of being ‘unwilling to change or understand’.

Photo By: Marc Rogers

If turning public opinion against producers was the aim, the result was a disaster. As an indignant rural community hardened its own position, city dwellers – until then passive observers – made themselves heard via the clunking of their kitchen utensils. Suddenly, the urban middle-class was united behind the farming community, two distinct groups bound by growing discontent with the style of governance.

In a follow up speech, Fernández opted for a more conciliatory tone that paved the way for dialogue between the dueling factions.

Tip of the Iceberg

Finding common ground in this conflict will be difficult, as it has now moved far beyond the original debate over the new export tax scheme. Says Lacroze, "the new export tax scheme was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. The main problem is this government’s approach to policy, which is to dictate conditions that everyone else must simply obey."

This sentiment is echoed throughout the farming community, which is frustrated by its lack of consultation in policy formation. While farmers accept that they have benefited from some policy measures, they do not believe this warrants exploitation. "It is not about how much money we win and lose, which is another error of the government," stresses Lacroze. "What we want is to be able to produce without anyone telling us how it should be done."

This policy tinkering must be viewed in the wider context of the government’s pro-growth economic model, which relies heavily on subsidies and price caps to contain inflation.

This system requires significant sums of money, to which the estimated US$11bn in revenues from agrarian export taxes in 2008 can contribute a large part, without threatening the coveted fiscal surplus. Independent economists argue that this can only work in the short run, and by dis-incentivising investment in the sector, will cause more harm going forward.

Chalking up the Costs

The most obvious immediate losses of the revolt will be in the production and sale of farm produce, while the numerous roadblocks will also have an impact on profits in the transport and industrial sectors. Export companies too stand to lose significant sums in payments for boats sitting idle in the country’s main ports, whilst in the city, retailers face dwindling stocks of meat, forcing many small businesses to cease operations.

On a broader level, the image of Argentina’s business climate overseas will suffer, making it harder to attract inward investment. This could exacerbate an already alarming trend. According to a report from the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), foreign direct investment into Latin America surged by around 50% in 2007, but Argentina witnessed a 40% decline.

The question of whether these costs are attributable to the protesting producers or the government remains a matter of opinion. However, if the concerns of the agrarian sector are accurate, these short-term complications will pale in significance with the long-term consequences of current policy.
"Without a change in attitude, production won’t increase under this government," concludes Lacroze, citing the crisis in the energy sector as an example of how things could end up in the worst case.

With this in mind, the country is left to ask an ominous question: if such a conflict can occur during times of abundance, what happens when conditions deteriorate? As the global economy stares into the abyss, the answer may not be long in forthcoming.

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Just ten minutes ago the white sands of Playa Cerro Chato were dotted with a few beach blankets and sunbathers. However, the people begrudgingly head for shelter as the infamous winds in the national park Santa Teresa gain momentum and waves of sand tumble down the coast.

While most people head to Punta del Este, Punta del Diablo, or Cabo Polonio those adventurous few who are not deterred by unreliable bus companies and useless park rangers head to the blue waters and soft rolling dunes of Santa Teresa, in the Rocha province in Uruguay. Each summer visitors are drawn to its beaches and the park’s other main attraction, it’s namesake.

Until 80 years ago these same unceasing winds and shifting sands hid one of Uruguay’s greatest historical treasures, on a perch not far from Playa Cerro Chato: the Fortaleza Santa Teresa.

Photo By Sanra Ritten

The pentagonal shaped fortress, started by the Portuguese in 1762 and finished by the Spanish years later, was the site of battles between the Spanish and Portuguese, the Spanish and English, The Spanish and indigenous tribes, the Uruguayans and the Portuguese and even between the Uruguayans themselves. During the Uruguayan Civil War, ‘Guerra Grande’, the ‘Blancos’, or conservatives, took refuge in the impenetrable enclosure.

Finally, the fortress was abandoned, pillaged and left to the mercy of snakes, spiders and sand.

Uruguayan historian Horacio Arredondo rediscovered and began restoring the nearly buried fortress in 1928. The Santa Teresa National Park is now a rustic beach resort of sorts, although you won’t find fancy hotels, reliable electricity or hot water in most parts. The disorganisation and lack of maintenance is all part of its charm and serves as a built-in crowd control.

Photo By Sanra Ritten

The park is in the Rocha province between the fishing town of Punta del Diablo and the beach of La Coronilla. Its main attraction is its pristine coast. The beaches extend for 15km and are divided by curving shorelines and rock formations.

The Playa Cerro Chato is one of the smaller beaches, somewhat shielded from the fierce winds. This is one of the better beaches for those seeking solitude, or for those who are camping nearby and are too lazy to walk any further. (Choose your campgrounds wisely, the park is expansive and a lot of walking is involved if you want to get from one area to another.) Playa Cerro Chato is also popular with the local fishermen, who lounge all day on the rocks waiting for their catch.

The park’s northernmost beach is its most popular and crowded. Playa de la Mosa, or Waitress’ Beach, reputedly got it’s name because the decapitated body of a waitress washed up on it’s shores in the early 20th century. Now it’s the site of a Brazilian themed bar, the only one within walking distance of Fortaleza Santa Teresa. Hence, it’s the centre of activity. Although you can’t count on the bar to have good food or even water, they do sell the best Uruguayan beer, Pilsen, ice cold which you can enjoy under the shade of the bamboo and leaf umbrellas.

Photo By Sanra Ritten

If you want to hit the waves but couldn’t fit your long board on the Rutas del Sol bus-ride-from-hell, there is a little stand beside the bar where you can rent surfboards and boogie boards. The surf isn’t world-class, but compared to the rest of Uruguay, it’s not too bad. Kite surfing is also very popular at the park’s beaches but for you’ll need to bring your own if you want to partake in the action.

There are several campgrounds in the park, the two most obvious options for the proximity to the beach are La Moza and Cerro Chato. In the summer months La Moza resembles a refugee camp – but with beer and lively music. Uruguayans, Brazilians and Argentines, who all once spilt blood on the same earth, camp side by side in the overcrowded party central camping.

Camping Cerro Chato is less popular and a much better choice for those seeking peace and quiet. It is a little farther from the park’s amenities – the grocery store, pizza place, ice cream parlour and telephone booth – but you will have much more privacy.

The lack of services, like a tourism office, hot water, and electricity for example, are reflected in the prices. The cheapest campgrounds are about 18 Argentine pesos a night for a parcel that can hold up six people. The next option up includes campgrounds with lights and running hot water, in La Moza, which are about 27 Argentine pesos a night. However, this also means you will have to greet packs of Brazilian men every time you poke your head out of the tent first thing in the morning. Which might not be a bad thing.

Photo By Sanra Ritten

If you don’t want to rough it, then the best options are the Cabañas Londrinas. They provide a living/dining room with a wood burning heater, a kitchen complete with a refrigerator, stove, cupboards and, most luxurious of all, hot water. Even if you imagine that you don’t need to bathe in hot water during the sweltering summer months, it will come as a surprise that after the subtropical bouts of torrential rain you will, in fact, want to take a hot shower.

The various cabañas range from $60 to $200 a night during the high season, before the prices drop dramatically from March until December.

While the Fortaleza Santa Teresa is not the easiest place to vacation, considering the distance from Buenos Aires and its lack of a tourism infrastructure, the beautiful beaches and walks through the eucalyptus, pine and palm trees are well worth the trek.

By Eric Benson

Nestled in a river valley with the granite peaks of Cerro Torre and Cerro Fitzroy looming in the distance, the Patagonian village of El Chaltén has quickly become one of the most sought-after spots in the region. Yet despite it’s recent surge in popularity, El Chaltén remains pristine – an idyllic counterpoint to its bustling, more tourist-centred cousins like El Calafate and Bariloche.

Click to view slide show – Photos courtesy of patagonia-aventura.com and fitzroyexpediciones.com.ar

It’s not only its quaint size that sets El Chaltén apart; it’s the village’s unique location inside the boundaries of Los Glaciers National Park. “El Chaltén is the only place in Patagonia where the mountains, the forest, and glaciers converge. Bariloche has forests and mountains, other areas have mountains and glaciers, but El Chaltén has all three,” says Alberto Del Castillo, director of Fitzroy Expeditions and Patagonia Aventura, a longtime resident of El Chaltén, and a bona-fide mountaineering legend – he’s summited both of the area’s august peaks: Cerro Torre and Cerro Fitzroy.

Those peaks cast a mythic spell over the region, and are El Chaltén’s most prominent claims to fame. Notoriously dangerous due to the harsh Patagonian winds that keep climbers wary of storms on even the most seemingly pacific of days, Cerro Torre and Cerro Fitzroy anchor the landscape of Los Glaciers National Park. Neither mountain was summitted until the 1950s, and many in the mountaineering community believe that Cerro Torre’s heights were not successfully reached until 1974. These are peaks that punish false steps with free falls, and reaching their summits requires both world-class expertise and the good favor of the mountain gods.

Photos courtesy of patagonia-aventura.com and fitzroyexpediciones.com.ar

While conquering Cerro Torre and Cerro Fitzroy is out of reach for mere mortals, all who set foot in El Chaltén can appreciate the dramatic beauty of Los Glaciers National Park. An expansive network of trails winds through the park’s wooded hills, providing views of mountains, glaciers, and over 100 species of birds that call the area home. Unlike other Patagonian towns, all of the trekking surrounding El Chaltén can be accessed simply by strapping on a pack and heading for the hills – no vehicles required.

El Chaltén may be an international Mecca for trekkers and climbers, but it’s a relatively new spot. It was founded in 1985 not for its proximity to the mountains and forests, but as a settlement staking Argentina’s claim to the Lago del Desierto region, then contested with Chile. (An international jury ruled in favor of Argentina’s claim in 1994.) Mountaineers quickly turned the town into much more than a border marker, yet despite its international flavour – during the summer months, there are more foreigners than Argentines – El Chaltén retains a strong sense of its native culture. “The people in El Chaltén feel very Argentine,” says Del Castillo, “but they’re not very nationalistic. We don’t get too caught up in things like politics and the presidential elections. We live in the real world down here, not the virtual world of the cities.”

This ‘real world’ that Del Castillo loves is on view year-round in El Chaltén, but it’s the quieter months that he prefers. “Patagonia has the reputation for having a terrible climate, but in truth, it’s nothing like Greenland, or Alaska, or other places far in the north. I lived in El Chaltén year-round for 14 years, and winter is my favourite time there. It’s very isolated and beautiful.”

Photos courtesy of patagonia-aventura.com and fitzroyexpediciones.com.ar

For those souls for whom sub zero temperatures and snow drifts sound less than idyllic, Del Castillo recommends the autumn – especially April and May – when the forest turns a vibrant red, the air is crisp and pure, and stream of visitors has slowed to a trickle.

While the winter and autumn are likely to remain the province of year-round residents and a few intrepid visitors, the high season has been getting ever more popular. El Chaltén’s relative isolation – it doesn’t have a major airport like El Calafate or Bariloche, and the parameters of the National Park set geographical limits on its expansion – has kept growth under control. Yet, longtime residents like Del Castillo have grown worried that the booming tourist trade could prove to be too much of a good thing. “I’d prefer if El Chaltén didn’t grow to the size of El Calafate or Bariloche, but there are really no controls here on tourism, so the growth is, in many ways, out of our hands,” he says. “I’d like there to be a limited, controlled tourism – one with a set capacity for the town and the National Park.”

While Del Castillo’s concerns suggest there may be challenges ahead for El Chaltén, the village remains one of the most pristine spots on the globe. It’s a treasure that hopefully can maintain its lustre for years to come, maintaining its delicate balance between human exploration and natural splendor.

Photos courtesy of patagonia-aventura.com and fitzroyexpediciones.com.ar