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.

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BluBlu.org

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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Boca Juniors football club from Buenos Aires are renowned for having some of the most passionate supporters in the world. Every other Sunday during the season, the concrete stands of Boca’s La Bombanera stadium reverberate in a riot of noise and colour.

Boca Coffins

However the passion of their fans has transcended the stadium, and some are taking their affection to the grave in one final act of support. In a joint venture between the club, a local funeral parlour and cemetery, supporters can be buried in coffins decorated in Boca’s blue and yellow colours in a specially designated Boca plot at Parque Iraola cemetery.

As a River Plate fan, I personally wouldn’t be seen dead in a Boca coffin, but I visited funeral director, Dario D’Auría at his San Justo funeral parlour to find out more about the scheme.

He explained that it started in March 2006, after the club granted permission for their crest and club colours to be used on the coffins in exchange for a commission on each funeral sold. The coffins are sold as part of a package which includes interment in the Boca Juniors section of Parque Iraola cemetery. Prices vary between US$550 and US$800 depending on the style of coffin, which range from plain blue to more elaborate ones in yellow and blue with the club crest.

Photo By: Mark Orton

Dario says that, on average, two Boca funeral packages a month are sold. I asked him what sort of people were buying them, he said: “Two types, firstly are the families of the recently departed, who take comfort in seeing their loved ones buried in the colours they were so passionate about; and then those fans who want to plan the funeral that they want, emphasising their support for Boca.”

When I asked him if he envisaged selling coffins in other clubs’ colours, Dario gave a wry smile and said: “No, I come from three generations of Boca fans, it would be very difficult.”

Boca Cemetery

Parque Iraola cemetery, 33km south of Buenos Aires, is the only one in the world to have a section dedicated to fans of one club. Sector Boca Juniors is a green haven of tranquillity, a far cry from the tumultuous Bombanera, tastefully bordered with flowerbeds in yellow copetes and blue salvias.

Commercial Manager, María Cristina Diaz told me that there are 3,000 plots available to supporters in Sector Boca Juniors, in an area measuring one hectare. Each one costing between $3,000 and $12,000 depending on their place in the cemetery, places nearest the players’ section being most sought after.

The Sector Boca Juniors opened on 7th September 2006, six months after Boca president, Mauricio Macri, gave the go ahead for the project. María says that most of the plots sold have been to supporters wanting to reserve their place for the future.

In addition to the fans’ section, a further 300 plots have been set aside for players and club officials, who will be buried free of charge. The first players to be buried there were Juan Estrada, who played in goal for Boca between 1938 and 1943, and Julio Musimessi, another goalkeeper who served the club from 1952 to 1959. They were both interred in a special ceremony at the sector’s opening.

Photo By: Mark Orton

Also visiting the cemetery was former Boca legend, Alfredo Graciani, who was arranging his own plot in the section. A veteran of 250 games for Boca Juniors, he also had successful spells playing in Switzerland with Lugano and the US with Miami. However, he said: “I enjoyed my career most at Boca, because of the passion of the fans and the incredible atmosphere in the stadium.”

Maradona Statue

As well as taking their support into the afterlife, Boca fans have also sought to immortalise one of their heroes, Diego Maradona. Four of them from Mar del Plata, Julián Chavero, Leandro Quintanilla, Gastón Amato and Lionel Díaz, commissioned a statue of the Boca icon to be built by Elizabeth Eichhorn. They collected $9,000 from supporters all over the world to pay for it. The monument, built of cement covered with bronze which stands 3m tall and weighs 300kg, depicts Maradona hand on heart before his greatest moment: leading Argentina to World Cup glory in 1986.

The statue was inaugurated as the latest exhibit in the Boca Juniors museum on 26th November 2006, and was unveiled by the great man himself. Maradona said: “As it is my first statue, it will always be the best.” He added: “I’m shocked and happy because now my children can see a symbol of what their father did.”

In his first spell at the club in 1981 he led Boca Juniors to a first Argentine championship in five years. He scored 28 goals in 36 games for the club he supported as a boy, before moving to Spanish giants Barcelona for a world record US$8.2m fee in 1982. Maradona has been revered by Boca fans ever since and 50,000 turned up to his farewell match at La Bombanera in November 2001.

The British have long been described as a nation of dog lovers. I am very proud to consider myself amongst that number. Man’s best friend has long been a source of (plutonic) friendship to me whenever our more traditional companions have had a headache. Nonetheless, upon my arrival in Buenos Aires I had to wonder if my native land’s title as canines’ truest amigos hadn’t been usurped by the epidemic ownership exhibited by our Latin cousins.

The streets of Argentina’s capital are filled with the barks, whines, yelps and smells of dogs. With a healthy proportion of the city’s residents occupying apartment buildings, the logistics of keeping large breeds content and healthy are sometimes problematic.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

It is for this reason that the sight of professional dog-walkers (paseaperros) is common on the roads and avenues of the metropolis. Since my arrival in the city I have long wondered how these individuals manage to keep such a multitude – often over 20 at a time – happy and placid when I have trouble with just one mild-mannered German Shepherd at home.

So when I was presented with the opportunity to shadow one of these canine-Jedis for a week I rolled over and begged at the chance.

Learning the Leashes

Waiting for Fabricio at a quite corner of Belgrano on a chilly Monday morning I was still unsure what to expect. I was also being followed by a US documentary team from Global Transmission Media just praying for some humiliating footage of a hapless gringo making a fool of himself.

Suddenly the silence was broken by what was going to soon become the familiar sound of rowdy pets as my mentor for the next week arrived. Fabricio, 30, appears with fleece, beanie and sunglasses – not to mention 22 hounds securely attached to a modified climbing harness around his waist.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

I step forward into the mealy to shake his hand and am greeted with my first lesson of professional dog-walking – watch where you tread. Buenos Aires is notorious for the ubiquitous deposits of foul-smelling excrement which any visitor could hardly have missed.

Whilst scraping my sole against the curb and pondering how remarkably accurate my exclamation of disgust had been, I see my tutor has already scampered at quite a rate across the road.

Here Fabricio explains to me lesson two – keep the dogs moving. “As long as they are in their correct positions in the group and are moving forward that’s half the battle,” he tells me. “When you stop and they get a chance to misbehave you can get into trouble.”

The dogs are all of reasonably large breeds. Labradors, Golden Retrievers and sheepdogs abound as well as one large Rottweiler. Bonzo, Fabricio explains is the alpha-male of the group. “In every group there tends to be boss which maintains order amongst the pack. This group has not been together for very long so there are sometimes problems, but I think Bonzo must be their leader.”

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

My first job arrives as I am handed my first charge. The undoubted runt of the litter, a diminutive speckled Terrier called Lennon. The film crew is delighted with the sight of Fabricio leading 21 dogs along the street followed by a 6ft3 Brit with a single pup so small that he would scarcely have made a gratifying canapé.

My new responsibility is short-lived, however, when it emerged that we only had a couple of blocks to go before Lennon was safely returned home.

With the Liverpudlian crooner safely enjoying a well-deserved snooze – Fabricio informs me that the dogs normally sleep for about five hours after their daily dalliance in the sun – we continue on our way

I take the opportunity to quiz Fabricio further about his job.

“The day starts at 7.20am when I begin to pick up all the dogs,” he tells me. “Then by 10am most of the dogs are on board and we walk for around an hour. Then we drop the dogs off in the same order.”

This daily routine involves a little over five hours work with the dogs receiving exactly three hours walking each. The route never changes a great deal and this allows the owners to know exactly what time to expect their pooches collected and returned.

“What if the owners are not around to answer the door?” I enquire, almost getting tangled up in a veritable maypole as I do. Fabricio pulls an immense bunch of keys from a pouch at the small of his back. “I have keys for most of the owner’s houses,” he explains. “If not I’ll take the dog back to my place and leave him there until I can make contact.”

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

“It’s not a problem now as I have my own place,” he continues. “Before, when I lived with my father, it could be a problem as he didn’t really like dogs. I had to wait in the street until the owner returned, even if it was raining!”

Here the level of trust involved becomes apparent. Dog-walkers in the city are a part of life, respected and depended-upon members of the community who take their job seriously and have greater responsibility than I first imagined.

“I have never taken a day off sick in nine years,” Fabricio tells me with pride. “I took two days off after my girlfriend died four years ago and that’s it. When my father died there was a public holiday the next day, but the day after that I was back working.”

Fabricio hands me another dog that was due to be delivered. Some of the smaller or older dogs don’t receive quite as much exercise as the rest.

After the remaining pooches were returned to their rightful owners I left Fabricio for the subte ride home. Although I was absolutely exhausted I had enjoyed the 15km hike. Most of all I was looking forward to the next day and the prospect of gaining control of the whole troop.

Entering the Fray

The next day the dogs seemed a little less chirpy than the previous. “After the weekend they are always energetic after a couple of days rest,” Fabricio explains. “Then they settle down a little.”

“Have you ever been bitten by the dogs?” I inquire with an obvious agenda. Fabricio lifts up his shirt and reveals a number of small scars.

“Very occasionally you can get bitten, yes,” he tells me. “The main problem is if the owner treats them in the right way. There are no dangerous breeds of dogs simply those not trained correctly. Any dog can be dangerous if not handled well.”

Reassured by this it is not long before I get a chance to step into the horde and experience the job firsthand. With the belt securely fastened I set about trying to get the 16 dogs to which I have been tethered to move in unison whilst not trip over leashes, animals or feces.

The constant tugging and pulling takes its toll on my lower back and thighs but after a while the pack seems to be moving in an orderly and civilised fashion. I begin to feel quite important surrounded by my own personal militia.

Photo By: Kate Stanworth

The dogs always walk in the road to evade pedestrians or other animals running out from gardens and spooking the group. Plus this avoids covering the pavement with muck. There is no time to stop so the dogs must just relieve themselves on the move. Normally this involves some rather unceremonious dragging.

Occasionally the dogs change positions or start bickering and need to be handled firmly. “If any trouble starts you need to stamp it out immediately,” Fabricio tells me. “If one dog acts up they can set off the others very quickly.”

I ask Fabricio why he became a dog-walker. “I started off just helping out a friend,” he tells me. “Then I really took to it. I earn twice as much doing this than as a photo-journalist, that’s what I studied at university. Plus I only have to work five hours a day from Monday to Friday.”

Many different professions have found it more profitable walking dogs than their original careers. “I charge around $100 a month to each client,” Fabricio tells me. “I now have a friend helping me by taking some of my dogs. People see me in the street and that I am responsible, that’s how I get my clients. Or I am recommended by other customers.

“I know fully qualified vets that have taken up dog walking to make more money,” he says. “Two years ago my friend was earning only $5 an hour as a vet, that’s just $1 more than the guy that washes the dogs!”

We pause as Fabricio delivers another pet to its home. My charges seem unusually quiet until I look around and see an act of fornication very much in progress. Feeling very prudish I separate the pair but Bonzo appears to disapprove. He must have a voyeuristic side to his character.

I have never been very intimidated by dogs. However, when a Rottweiler that looks like he could chase a brown bear up a tree starts growling, I tend to take note – especially when he is tied to my waist. Thankfully he is eventually placated and we continue onwards without any more problems.

A Change of Careers?

All in all the life of a dog-walker is certainly attractive. Of course occasionally the job can become quite stressful when there is traffic to be negotiated. The added obstacles of level-crossings, children, prams, other dogs and elderly pedestrians demand constant vigilance.

Despite this, the days continued relatively free of problems. The exercise is certainly vigorous and maintaining order can be difficult, especially when the females are on heat.

As well as walking the dogs, we also delivered them to the professional groomers and kept an eye on their health. Sometimes they emerged looking so dashing I began to feel quite self-conscious. Once I even went home and had a shave.

Getting to know the individual personalities is key. Achilles was young and boisterous, Hans was affectionate and Kancha definitely had an eye on the ladies. My favourite was Kampi, a gorgeous Golden Retriever. He would always bark in a schoolyard ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ manner whenever the other dogs were engaged in a round of handbags, without ever getting involved himself.

Certainly I could imagine taking up the job full-time. Fresh air, exercise and friendly companionship is always attractive. So, Gringo Dog-Walkers Inc? Watch this space.

By Kristie Robinson

Winter 1972. The dictatorship of Lanusse is slowly losing its grip on power, and protests by left-wing organizations, trade unionists and students are becoming more and more frequent. The call for elections and a return to democracy is getting louder, and the country increasingly polarized.

Since the 1966 coup, human rights have deteriorated and arbitrary imprisonment of intellectuals, students and trade unionists – or simply those with different ideologies than the ruling junta – is a regular occurrence.

The jails are starting to fill with political prisoners, many of whose only crime is a different way of thinking. Outraged, the left-wing forces begin organizing themselves, and by the end of 1970 many guerrilla and militant groups have formed, the most well-known being the Montoneros, ERP (the People’s Revolutionary Army, the militant wing of the PRT, the Worker’s Revolutionary Party) and the FAR (Armed Revolutionary Party).

Click to view slide show – Photos by Sanra Ritten

The most dangerous – or perhaps just influential – prisoners are tucked firmly out of sight, away from Buenos Aires, in two maximum-security penitentiaries – one in Chaco, in the north of Argentina, and another in Rawson, close to Trelew, in a far-flung corner of Chubut, Patagonia.

The Prison

At the door of Rawson penitentiary, the cold Patagonian wind whips around my head. The sky goes on forever, and the horizon is far away. It is flat and barren. The enormity of the landscape contrasts horrifically with what is on the other side of the door.

Standing in the cell, if I stretch my arms out no matter which way I turn I can touch the walls. It is cold and bare. And tiny. A metal stool and table are in the corner. And I am told two people would normally have been housed in this space in the 1970s.

Photo By: Sanra Ritten

One man breaks down, revisiting the cell where he spent nine hard years. He tells me that coming back is a contradiction – he is reliving the hell of all those years, but at the same time experiencing again the solidarity of the compañeros with whom he survived hell. He points out that we are not shown the punishment cell, where it was said you would lose a kilo a day, such were the conditions.

Someone else cracks a joke, and everyone laughs, easing the tension. It is what they used to do, they tell me, humour got them through. Except laughing was punishable, they are quick to add, and the somberness returns.

And then I emerge from the cell block and the dazzling sunlight is blinding. Although I cannot see the remote landscape outside, the whitewashed prison walls preventing such a view, there is something in the air, or the sun, or maybe even the sky that tantalizes, making me aware of what I am missing out on.

The experience is overwhelming.

The Escape

Faced with these devastating conditions, on 15th August 1972, over 100 political prisoners tried to escape.

Rawson was a fortress, and the junta expected that if an escape attempt was to happen, it would come from the outside. As a result the prison was heavily armed on the outside, but inside the defenses were much lower, as if an unaided breakout would never happen. It would have been suicide – even if such a breakout could happen, where could the prisoners go? Adding to the odds against such an attempt, aero-naval base Almirante Zar was just outside of Trelew, and the region was thus teeming with military personnel.

However, as Fernando Vaca Narvaja, one of the masterminds of the escape, explains: “All of the prisons had escape plans. In Rawson there were two; the first was a tunnel, which we started, but it kept flooding, so we turned to a different idea, which was the escape that we undertook. We planned it differently, conceptually. Some 100 militants on the outside were involved in the planning, and on the inside we planned the escape in cell block 5.”

The escape had military planning and precision, with every detail and possibility considered and accounted for. The idea was for the prisoners to take the prison from the inside, using one of the regular military inspections as cover.

Photo By: Sanra Ritten

“We managed to get on side one of the guards, Carmelo Facio, who smuggled in military uniforms and a gun,” Narvaja adds.

On the day of the inspection, 15th August 1972, Narvaja put on the military uniform, the idea being they would arouse less suspicion initially disguised as military personnel, and by the time the guards realised it would be too late.

The prisoners were split into three groups, the first consisting of six compañeros who would lead the operation, dressed as military personnel. The six included founding and leading members of the Montoneros, ERP and FAR.

The second group, consisting of 19 further prisoners, would stabilize the prison, and leave in the second wave, and then a final group of 89 prisoners would follow behind.

The taking of the jail went almost like clockwork, the prisoners finding almost no resistance to their efforts, until a guard, Juan Gregorio Valenzuela, got into a violent confrontation with Marcos Osatinsky, of FAR, and was shot dead. Osatinsky had a silencer on his gun and so the shooting was unknown by other guards, and so didn’t arouse suspicion, and the operation carried on as planned.

They made it to the exterior posts of the prison, and guerrillas took up the positions of the guards, surveilling the Patagonian plains.

The first vehicle, a Ford Falcon, driven by a compañero came into the prison compound, and took the first six as planned. However, upon leaving they realised that the van and trucks were not there to take and second and third group of prisoners.

Jorge Lewinger, one of the FAR people planning the escape from the outside, takes responsibility for this. He misread one of the signals and interpreted it to mean the escape had gone wrong. Realising how dangerous it would have been if they were caught outside, he informed the drivers to abort the mission. They learnt of their mistake when talking having driven various kilometres, and turned back, but upon approaching the prison realised they were too late as the military were everywhere.

Meanwhile the first group of escapees drove around Rawson looking for the other vehicles. Narvaja explained: “We were supposed to only take 15 minutes to take the prison, and it took 17 or 18. We guessed they thought something had gone wrong, or they had got lost. We tried finding them, but to no avail. Knowing we had a plane to catch, we told the second group to call for taxis, and headed to the airport in Trelew.”

The second group made the calls, and three taxis soon arrived to take the 19 prisoners to the airport. The remaining group had little other choice than to remain behind.

Celedonio Carrizo, one of the 89 left behind, who, had the taxis been slightly bigger, would have been the next prisoner to taste freedom, said: “At the time we were obviously disappointed, but we were also happy as we felt the operation had been a success as 25 compañeros had made it out. And we were proud of them.”

The first group of militants made it to the airport in time to catch the flight, which was coming from Comodoro Rivadavia en route to Buenos Aires. Three other militants were on board the plane, and the plan was to hijack it at Trelew, and divert to Chile. The escapees arrived at the airport when the plane was already on the runway, preparing for takeoff. So they decided to head up to the control tower and tell the traffic controllers they had had a tip-off there was a bomb on board, and they would have to inspect the aircraft. This was plausible, as they were all dressed in military uniforms, and so were allowed to board the plane with little difficulty, which the three militants on board, seeing them coming, had already taken control of. They delayed taking off until they felt they could no longer, and managed to divert the plane to Puerto Mont in southern Chile, followed by the capital Santiago, where socialist president Salvador Allende guaranteed their asylum and safe passage to Cuba, some ten days later.

Photo By: Sanra Ritten

The second group of 19 escapees arrived at the airport in the three taxis just in time to see the plane take off.

Knowing the military would be on their tail shortly, and fearing for their lives should they be caught unprepared, they took control of the airport and held the passengers and staff hostage, demanding access to lawyers, doctors and journalists. They were granted all of their requests, and were allowed to speak to the judge and lawyers, as well as talk to the cameras about what had happened. They asked to be returned to the prison, saying they would go peacefully in return for the guarantee of their own safety.

Capitan Sosa, one of the military commanders at the Almirante Zar base, gave his word the military would comply. On the 16th August, the prisoners found themselves en route to the prison once again, when they diverted to the military base. They were told Rawson jail was still under the control of the prisoners, and they would be going to the base instead. The judge, lawyers and journalists who had accompanied them in their journey were not allowed to enter, and had little choice but to leave them at the door.

Over the subsequent days the 19 prisoners were interrogated and tortured by the military authorities, their maltreatment worsening daily, until on 21st August they were told they would be returning to the prison the next day.

However, such hopes were never to be realised, as at 3.30am on 22nd August 16 of the prisoners were killed.

Thirteen of the prisoners were killed outright, including Ana María Villarreal de Santucho, the wife of ERP leader Roberto Santucho who had made it to Chile in the first wave of the escape. She was four months pregnant at the time. Three died later that day from blood loss sustained in their injuries, and three survived to tell the truth of what happened that night.

The official version of events, as told by Capitan Sosa, was that Mariano Pujadas, one of the prisoners, had taken his gun and tried to initiate an escape, and the military had been forced to return fire. This version, made public shortly after the shootings, was full of contradictions and widely questioned.

The three survivors’ testimonies, which came out after the dictatorship fell the following year, told a very different tale.

At 3.30am the prisoners were violently woken and forced from their cells and told to form a line, where, defenceless, they were machine gunned by a group of soldiers on the command of Sosa, after he said: “Now you’re going to see what anti-guerrilla terror really looks like.” The only thing that stopped all of the 19 prisoners from being killed on the spot was the arrival of other soldiers on the scene.

The massacre was an unprecedented incident in the history of Argentina, although an ominous sign of things to come later in the decade. It led to demonstrations around the country, and is regarded as the turning point in the history of ERP, which grew more militant almost overnight, having lost 11 members.

Of the incident, current secretary for human rights, Eduardo Luis Duhalde, who represented more than one of the 19 political prisoners, says: “As a lawyer, it is the most impotent I have ever felt. Under a dictatorship there is no rule of law, and therefore my role was demoted to one of watching.”

Last month over 350 former political prisoners returned to Rawson prison for the 35th anniversary of the massacre. To mark the anniversary, the old airport, which had stood empty for some 30 years, was opened as a space for memory.

One of the cellblocks of Rawson was also reopened for the anniversary, which allowed the former prisoners to re-enter where they had been housed all those years ago.

For further information on the Rawson escape and the subsequent massacre:

Read ‘Trelew, Historia de una masacre y la organización popular como respuesta’ by Christian Petralito and Alberto Alderete. Published in Spanish by Nuestra America www.nuestramerica.com.ar

Watch ‘Trelew’, a documentary directed by Mariana Arruti, which tells the story through interviews and original footage from 1972.

By Lucy Harbor

Nothing whets an architect’s whistle quite like a new style to practice. Over the last few years winery design has boomed, capturing the imagination of A-list architects around the world.

The two main factors contributing to the sudden interest in the winery architecture phenomenon are tourism and branding. Just as many retail companies are identifiable by a well-designed flagship store, so too are vineyards seizing the opportunity to create an image for the company, while simultaneously attracting more tourists to visit their new bodega.

Click to view slide show

In recent years some truly inspiring architecture has emerged, such as Dominus Winery in Napa Valley, California, by Herzog and Demeuron who were responsible for the Tate Modern in London. Bodega Ysios in northern Spain is frequently cited as the best of its kind, with tourists making the trip just to see the building.

Argentina is not without its own world class bodegas, with two in the Mendoza region of Argentina – Catena Zapata in Lujan de Cuyo, and O. Fournier in Valle de Uco. These bodegas make an interesting contrast both in architectural design and aspiration. O. Fournier commissioned a building with to enable and improve the production of the wine, Nicolás Catena Zapata’s building is a purely symbolic building.

Photo By: Matthew Dillon

José Manuel Ortega, described his aspirations for O. Fournier, as achieving ‘a balance between modernity, connection with the mountains, technology and aesthetic pleasure’.

The bodega lies 100km to the south of Mendoza at the foot of the Cordillera with its snow-capped mountains, where the land is dry and arid. As the winery four wide columns supporting a flat, square roof covering the entire main building comes into view. O. Fournier more closely resembles a futuristic petrol station than a winery.

Everything at O. Fournier is designed for a functional purpose. There is one floor for each stage of the wine making process. Pipes allow the wine to flow to the next level and subsequent production. The owner wanted the wine to flow down using only gravity, eliminating the need to use air to pump the wine from level to level, ensuring a higher quality of wine.

The new winery. Bodegas y Vinedos O, Fournier, La Consulta, Valle de Uco, Mendoza, Argentina. Photographed in November 2005.

On the top floor the grapes are fermented and turned into wine. The second floor provides room for the barrel blending of the wine. Finally, the wine arrives in the cellar where it is barrel aged. Natural light flows from a skylight, illuminating every floor until finaly forming an ‘X’ across the barrels in the centre of the cellar. With the cross of light shining down from above into the cool, dark open space, this space has a dramatic, almost religious feel to it.

Nicolás Catena Zapata took a different approach to the design of his namesake bodega.
As Argentine wine was becoming a force to be reckoned with, Nicolás wanted an impressive building as a statement to the rest of the winemaking world. Seeking inspiration in native American cultures, so he settled on the Mayan temples, specifically Tikal in Guatemala. Constructed entirely from Argentine materials this building is a celebration of all things Argentine – the stone flooring and walls, and even an impressive rosewood table made from one single tree from the Missiones region.

This building is also stands three stories tall, however it is only the bottom floor that plays a role in the production of the wine. The basement houses artistically arranged barrels surrounding a glass enclosed tasting room, providing the visitor a view of where their wine originated.

The new winery. Bodegas y Vinedos O, Fournier, La Consulta, Valle de Uco, Mendoza, Argentina. Photographed in November 2005.

Aside from offices and tasting rooms, the other two floors function only for the purposes of the visitor. The building provides an inspiring space for tourists to come and enjoy the vineyard views and mountain ranges vistas, before tasting some of their award winning vintages.

The two very different bodegas embody the success of the Mendoza wine industry today. With their technological and scientific research, optimal growing environment for the malbec grape, and mountain spring irrigation, these two exciting new buildings are attracting the attention of the wine world to this region.

If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise…

Instead of teddy bears, you could be sharing your tartan throw and cream teas with some of Buenos Aires’ transvestites.

In the sprawling Parque 3 Febrero, by day, you will find families walking, laughing, feeding the ducks, splashing around on boat rides and strolling through the rose gardens. By night the park, or more specifically the so-called ‘Bosques de Palermo’, host a far more shady enterprise: transgender prostitution.

The transvestite prostitute community (or travestis as they are known) of the bosques has developed in a typically turbulent way. In September 2004, a government bill prohibited prostitution within 200 metres of a school, church or residential building. This left them with very few options, but the relative peace and quiet of the bosques continued to house them, in spite of the restrictions.

Photo By Daniel Estrada

In August 2007, following complaints by local residents and park users, the prohibition was extended to this patch also. The travestis reacted in angry protest and an uneasy meeting in the rather unlikely location of the Palermo Golf Club ensued.

Residents and prostitutes have now agreed to disagree and government bodies are currently negotiating some kind of peace.

As the travestis struggle to gain ground, business continues as usual and unashamedly. It has become a well documented part of the Buenos Aires experience. The whispered words ‘Bosques de Palermo’, mean only one thing to the taxi drivers, and with a wink and a ’si, señor’, you’re off into the depths; no questions or sideways glances.

I brave the woods to discover more.

We drive past the trees, and a row of streetlamps slides into view. There, sure enough, lining the streets, are the feathers, the legs and the hand bags. Scantily-clad, whistling and beckoning anyone who passes by or dares to catch their eye. I am struck by its unambiguous, explicit organization. It’s far from the threatening, clandestine practice that it is traditionally seen as.

Photo By Daniel Estrada

Here, there are as many curious onlookers as there are clients; revellers from the nearby electronica club, ‘Crow bar’, wander through, as well as the occasional jogger and pedestrian. The way is well lit and open, noisy and vibrant; not the ‘forbidden forest’ I was expecting. I also notice a distinct lack of police patrols through the area. I zip my rucksack up and venture in.

I approach a happy-looking young ‘lady’, who turns out to be Luna, aged 18, with a cigarette in hand as a kind of peace offering. For, though not naturally shy by any means, they have learned not to trust too quickly.

“The life of a transvestite is very complicated," she offers, wistfully, “you don’t know if you will make it home alive at the end of the night." Her story is typical, though she is younger than most. She works the streets for money, even in the winter when it snows, because there is less money for call girls. Like many of the community, she gets hassled by taxi drivers and the police, who have been known to take advantage of their vulnerability.

Despite an obvious Adam’s apple and hands that are bigger than mine (as she lights her cigarette), you could certainly be forgiven for mistaking Luna’s sexual identity. She has flowing red hair, and incredible legs; though she admits that she is ‘pretty macho’, and that, after all, she ‘has balls’.

Photo By Daniel Estrada

She is ambitious and is currently studying English, though, perhaps disappointingly, this is more as a way to reach the tourists than as a way out. Foreigners and English people, she says, are more upfront, looking for an adventure; whereas Argentines are often more shy.

She worries about making money, and the cold in winter. She is afraid of getting diseases. “If I continue with this …[I] won’t live until I’m 35," she says.

A report in 2006 by the association of the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo surveyed over 300 transvestites. The report said that nearly 70% of these had died between the ages of 22 and 41. Of these, 62% died of HIV/AIDS, 17% were murdered and the rest committed suicide, were killed in traffic accidents, or were ‘the victims of drug overdose, illnesses or medical malpractice in cosmetic surgery carried out in unhygienic conditions’.

Ninety percent of those surveyed said they had suffered physical or verbal abuse because of their gender identity.

‘Precila’, the next girl along, wearily loiters, then eventually comes over and introduces a new topic. We discuss the ‘provincial girls’ from outside Capital Federal. Life outside Buenos Aires, I learn, is harder still; here at least the girls look out for one another. They have strength in numbers, and this is attracting many to the city.

This influx, however, means increased competition. After all, they are competing for clients in a supply-and-demand market. Zula Lucero, from ‘Las Mariposas’ website, articulated in blunt terms the market nature of the job, saying: “we are bodies on a corner which are consumed like a cigarette."

Despite this constant objectification, Luna and Precila remain sentient, thoughtful and respectful. Precila tells me that as a youngster she was taught to treat people with respect, and that she always has done so as a result.

The travestis are developing a public profile. Argentina’s most famous transvestite Florencia de la V, has done a lot to make the public more aware. “People have become more tolerant," she says.

A new magazine, ‘El Teje’, run by the Centro Cultural Rojas, is devoted to the transvestite community. Despite some teething problems (most of the community have little formal education), the first issue print run of 1,000 copies quickly ran out. They are currently looking to raise funds through advertising, and are hoping to develop the magazine in the coming months.

This tolerance is allowing them a voice that they have lacked for so long. A draft law on transgender identity, which has been introduced in Congress, would allow transvestites to legally change their name and thus their official gender identity. This will allow them access to the public facilities which we often take for granted, and also applications to work.

The movement may be getting a reputation in court, but until they are allowed equal access to the porteño life, prostitution will remain their principle source of income.

Luna and Precila have quickly overturned my preconceptions. They are not scary or freakish; they are strong-minded, charismatic and funny. But they are badly misunderstood and vulnerable in their dangerous profession.

As we go to leave, someone screams ‘puto!’ from a passing car, as it booms out the obligatory boy-racer reggaton. Luna shrugs again, puffs on her cigarette and struts over to their open mouths and wide eyes.