Following up on complaints from neighbors, police began a stakeout of Juan Jantum’s house. A steady stream of people coming and going from the house made the decision to investigate an easy one. Juan Jantum’s house was obviously being used to distribute drugs.

Coastal city Mar del Plata is a top vacation spot for Argentines.

At 1:50 am on March 4th, police witnessed a woman arrive by taxi, enter the house and exit a few minutes later. They apprehended her as she walked out, the two doses of acid in her purse causing the expected arrest. It was, however, a shock to find out that the person in custody was in fact a man named Sergio. Despite being caught red-handed, there are no arrest records for Sergio, probably owing as much to her baritone protestations of innocence as to what happened next.

Entering the house, the police quickly found more than enough evidence to make an arrest. Scattered about the house and largely prepped for distribution, were more than 4 kilos of marijuana and 600 grams of cocaine. Jantum (45, aka “Ruben Castro”, aka “Piti”, aka ‘Pepe”) was indignant at losing his wares and being hauled off to jail. Accusing the police of kidnapping his drugs, he shouted, “I have judicial protection!”

Cops uncovered a major corruption
scandal in Mar del Plata, Argentina

Confounded, the police wondered exactly just what he meant. As Jantum happily explained, he was legally allowed to sell the drugs because they were “taken from the evidence vault of the Federal Court.”

After being assured that there is no such thing as “judicial protection” for dealing drugs, Jantum quickly implicated everybody in his operation. Beginning with Jose “Chico” Tarantino, a local mechanic who delivered the drugs, on up to the Court Clerks and Guards who stole the drugs and finally to the Federal Judge who adjusted the evidence records to show that the drugs were never there.

Sensing they were on the verge of breaking a major public corruption case, the police moved quickly and quietly. Paperwork for their arrest was held to keep it out of the public record and avoid raising Judge Roberto Falcone’s suspicions. Turns out they needn’t have been so cagey.

Falcone was already raising eyebrows around the court house, having in the same week brazenly pocketed $400 in walking around money from the evidence vault. A quick review of records showed that Falcone was not even trying to hide his tracks, recently adjusting 20 kilos of marijuana from the evidence reports with no explanation provided.

The court clerk, Facundo Capparelli, had noticed the discrepancies and when confronted by police admitted to knowing of the thefts. Asked as to why he hadn’t felt the need to file a report he shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Report what? We’re going to burn everything.”

Sure enough that same day Capparelli signed an order to incinerate all of the drugs stored in the vault, thus destroying all evidence of the crimes. Public Prosecutor Adrian Peres was able to secure a court injunction preventing the burning and allowing an inspection of the vault. Peres discovered massive amounts of contraband were missing:

Court proceedings start this week in Mar del Plata.

64 kilos of Marijuana and 8 plants,
11.5 kilos of Cocaine,
49 doses of LSD,
239 tablets of Ecstasy,
12 doses of PCP and,
2 Hallucinogenic Mushrooms.

Later chemical tests confirmed that the drugs found in Jantum’s house were in fact from the federal evidence vault.

Court proceedings open this week in the cases against Capparelli, Jantum and Tarantino. No word on whether or not “Sergio” will be making an appearance to recount her tale of the fateful evening.

Honorable Roberto Falcone is still sitting on the federal judiciary, as no charges have been brought against him. He is also serving on a Congressional Advisory Committee on Issues surrounding the Repression of Drug Traffickers and Complex Criminality.

Related

Juicio a dos secretarios y un policía por el robo de droga de un tribunal (Clarin)

Drogas en Mar del Plata, episodio II. Jueces, policías y una historia de novela (El Ojo Digital)

Intercambiando

Over 300 people have filed a $15 million lawsuit against farm owners, as well as the provincial and national governments for the damage caused by the fires and the smoke.

UPDATE 4/20 10:07 : It appears meteorologists are about as accurate here as back in the U.S. Changing wind patterns have given Buenos Aires residents a relief from the smoke and a breath of fresh air. The winds are expected to turn back and take a southernly direction by this afternoon, returning the smoke to the city.

The smoke that has blanketed Buenos Aires for the past week will continue through at least Wednesday, Servicio Meteorologico Nacional warned today. On Wednesday the wind patterns will provide a respite from the smoke choking the city, however the relief will be minor and short lived.

For city residents the negative health affects of living downwind from a 173,000-acre grass fire are starting to take hold. Over 400 people have been admitted to hospitals for smoke related ailments, prompting the Ministry of Health to declare a yellow alert for hospitals, ophthalmologists and pediatricians. Authorities in La Plata have recommended people not leave their homes unless absolutely necessary.

Smoke clogs the streets and obscures the view of the Obelisco in Buenos Aires

Carbon monoxide levels have been steadily rising in Buenos Aires, with levels as high as 17 ppm detected. Symptoms of carbon monoxide exposure include headaches, dizziness and nausea, which worsen with long-term contact. Prolonged exposure to fresh air is required for carbon monoxide to clear from the bloodstream, something that is currently in short supply in the Buenos Aires area.

Adding to the misery of residents in Capital Federal, transportation cuts are still in effect. Highways Ruta 9, 12 and 14 are closed, all departures from Retiro bus station are cancelled and Aeroparque Jorge Newberry has been closed because due to poor visibility. All flights have been diverted to Ezeiza, however visibility problems there have led to numerous cancellations and delays. Supte lines A, B and D are closed and C is running with lengthy delays.

Officials confirmed in a press conference today, that new fires have been detected along Ruta 12. Police officials said they spotted “two people on horseback setting fires, and in another area a tractor with a trailer on fire – which is the typical method employed for burning pastures.”

The fight against the fires in the Parana Delta is proving to be strikingly ineffective. Over 297 separate fires are currently burning and there are only 300 firefighters in the area to combat the blazes. Another 300 firefighters are being held in reserve and will rotate in to relieve those on the front lines. With such a glaring lack of manpower, the government is admitting that it cannot stop the blazes. The Secretary of the Environment, Ramina Picolotti, conceded that “humans can not put [the fires] out, we can only help nature.”

Interior Minister Florencio Randazzo confirmed today that two people are in custody in connection with starting the fires and a third is being searched for. Additionally the government has leveled charges against 200 farm owners for their liability in starting the fires.

“This is not a forest fire, it’s the burning of grasslands for greed and personal gain which has caused enormous risk to the population and enormous expense to the state. It’s unacceptable,” Picolotti stated in a press conference today. However the government has taken care to say their charges against the 200 farm owners have nothing to do with the ongoing negations to resolve the campo crisis.

The agricultural sector has responded angrily to the charges. Vice President of the Rural Society, Hugo Biolcati argued that "it is extremely unfair and unwise to hold an entire sector responsible, such as farmers, for the actions of individuals." Today in an escalation of rhetoric, the farmers unions threatened to restart the strikes that crippled Argentina’s highway system and blocked food delivery to Buenos Aires for three weeks.

RELATED:

- State of Emergency: Highways to BsAs Closed

- Government Blames Farmers For the Delta Blaze

- BsAs Darkened By Smoke From Delta Grass Fires

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 4x4m 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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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’.

[photoxhibit=15]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.

[photoxhibit=16]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.

[photoxhibit=17]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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2008 marked the 26th anniversary of the Falklands/Malvinas conflict. The war, although short-lived, continues to weigh heavily on the Argentine conscience. However, the dispute over the islands did not begin in 1982. The territory has been a source of bitter tension since its first sighting by Europeans 500 years ago. Argentina and Britain are not the only ones to lay claim, the Spanish, the French and even the US have all attempted to take the islands for their own ends at some time or other.

So aside from the jingoistic proclamations of both sides, what is the true story behind the islands? Who discovered the archipelago and who settled there? Unfortunately these questions are so charged with political implications now that it is often difficult to gain an accurate picture of the Falklands/Malvinas past.

Origin of the Name

The name in English, ‘Falklands’ originates from the British landing in 1690 by Captain John Strong. Strong named the channel between the two islands ‘The Falkand Sound’ after a leading British naval official Anthony Cary, the fifth viscount of Falkand. The name was later used to describe the whole group of islands.

The Spanish name ‘Malvinas’ is a derivative of its French name les Malouines. The island was christened by the French explorer and commander Louis Antoine de Bougainville in 1764 in reference to the French port of Saint Malo, where Bougainville and his expedition departed from.

First Sightings and Landings

There is considerable debate about who first discovered the islands and who landed first. Given that accounts of the islands’ discovery are so key to both Argentina’s and the UK’s claims to sovereignty of the islands (as well as Spanish and French previously) it is difficult to gain a clear picture.

Argentine versions claim that the Portuguese cartographer Esteban Gómez, who deserted the famous Spanish-funded Magellen expedition in 1520, sighted what he called the ‘Islas de Sansón y de los Patos’ (Islands of Samson and the Ducks).

The first undisputed sighting was made by the Dutch sailor Sebald de Weert in 1600, although it took almost another century for anyone to land on the islands.

In 1690, John Strong and his British crew became the first people documented to land on the islands.

Despite this, the first settlement was established by the French navigator, Louis Antoine de Bougainville in 1764. The Frenchman established a stronghold named Port Saint Louis on the eastern island, claiming it in the name of the French crown much to the annoyance of France’s allies the Spanish. The following year, the British set up a colony on the western island called Port Egmont.

Under Spanish Control

A year later, Bougainville sold the colony to the Spanish Throne and Port Louis was renamed Puerto Soledad. A Spanish governor was sent and in 1770 Spain sent 1,400 troops from Buenos Aires with the aim of ejecting the British colony. After intense negotiations that almost led to Britain and Spain going to war, the British were allowed to stay at Egmont. However, the British decided to leave four years later ostensibly for economic reasons.

Argentina Gets Involved

After Argentina’s declaration of independence from Spain in 1816, the Buenos Aires government officially proclaimed its right to sovereignty. The islands were initially used by the Argentines as a penal colony, but by 1828 there was an established settlement involved in sealing, fishing and other trade.

However in 1826, the US and Argentina seriously fell out over fishing rights. The Argentine governor seized three US seal hunting ships caught poaching and sailed one to Buenos Aires as a trophy. In retribution the US warship Levington landed and destroyed the Puerto Soledad leaving only escaped prisoners and pirates. In 1832 Argentina sent a replacement governor to restore order but the population quickly rebelled and kill him.

British Take Control

Fearing that the US would claim the islands for themselves, the British sent a force to reinvade the islands. On 2nd January 1833, the Royal Navy warships Clio and Tyne under Captain Onslow arrived and forced the Argentine commander Esteban José Francisco Mestivier and the other settlers to leave.

The Argentine government protested strongly against the invasion but the British claimed their right to sovereignty due to the negotiations that had been made with the Spanish in 1771.

Once under British control, an extended plan of colonization began with the establishment of Port Stanley in 1845.

Over the next century Argentina became increasingly assertive in its claims for the island, culminating in the United Nations passing Resolution 2065 which called on both nations to find a peaceful solution to the problem. However through the next century and a half, the islands remained firmly under the UK’s rule.

1982

By 1982, the military junta that had taken control of Argentina in 1976 was facing serious economic problems, with inflation spiralling to 600%. Anxious to divert attention from the growing crisis, the incumbent military leaders elected to invade the islands Argentina had claimed as theirs for the last 150 years. Under the codename ‘Operación Rosario’, on April 2nd 1982, an Argentine force invaded the islands renaming Port Stanley ‘Puerto Argentino’ and unleashing a wave of nationalist sentiment.

However the euphoria was short-lived, as the British sent a large expeditionary force to retake the territory. After a short but bloody air, naval and eventual land war the Argentine forces surrendered on 14th June.

In total 649 Argentine and 258 British servicemen lost their lives. The defeat destroyed the military’s already fragile credibility thus cementing its fate. In 1983 it was overthrown and democratic elections reintroduced.

Argentina continues to lay claim to the islands, although they presently still remain under British control.

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.

On the night of Monday 6th August 2007, Gonzalo Acro, accompanied by a friend, were approached by three men on a street in Villa Urquiza, Buenos Aires, whilst walking home from the gym. The trio opened fire, and left the pair for dead on the pavement.

Three days later, a spokesman at the Pirovano hospital where Acro lay in a coma announced that in the early hours of that same day, the 29-year-old had died from gun shot wounds to the head.

Not just a random attack, this was described as ‘the latest bout of football-related violence’ in Argentina.

Football Hooliganism

Football hooliganism in South America is by no means a new phenomenon – the late 1950s saw an escalation of football-related violence, which earned great media interest globally. Indeed, Argentina’s most significant incident of football-related violence occurred nearly 40 years ago, when 72 people were killed at a match between River Plate and Boca Juniors.

More recently, a death toll of 40 people at football matches between 1992 and 2002 provoked an investigation into football hooliganism in Argentina which concluded that football violence had become a national crisis. In the 2002 season, five supporters were killed and dozens fell victim to stabbing and shootings, causing the season to be suspended.

Passionate fans at Platense, Photo by Fabricio Di Dio

This football hooliganism is commonly attributed to organised supporter groups known as barras bravas. Their style of support is comparable to that of the Ultra groups in Europe – standing throughout matches, organising chants and displaying large flags and banners in their teams colours.

The case of Gonzalo Acro

‘Los Borrachos del Tablón’ is the name of River Plate’s barra brava, and Gonzalo Acro was a significant member. The group is currently headed by brothers, Alan and William Schlenker, but a rebel faction, led by Adrián Rousseau, is trying to seize power of the barra. Gonzalo Acro was described as ‘the lieutenant’ of Rousseau.

On 10th August, ‘La Nación’, quoting police sources, vocalised general suspicions that Acro’s death was related to the complicated politics of the Buenos Aires club’s extreme supporter group: "Gonzalo Acro knew his killers, who were likely to have been members of the other sector of the violent supporter group known as ‘Los Borrachos del Tablón’," reported Gabriel Di Nicola.

Adrián Rousseau fuelled the speculation, telling magazine ‘Veintitrés’: "Alan [Schlenker] organised it…He may have an alibi but he arranged it all ten days ago." Schlenker came out to defend himself, claiming he and Acro were good friends, and he was saddened to hear the news of his death. Schlenker has since been detained for his alleged role in the murder.

Graffiti decrying football hooliganism, Photo by Fabricio Di Dio

What influence do the barras bravas actually have?

Just over a month after the murder of Gonzalo Acro, it was the turn of Newell’s Old Boy’s barra brava to steal the limelight. Following a defeat to Central, club manager, Pablo Marini, stepped down. Five witnesses reportedly saw several members of the club’s barra brava threaten Marini in the dressing room and initial reports suggested this was the reason for his resignation.

However, Marini told Olé: "There wasn’t any aggression, there was no intent of aggression, there were no guns, there were no threats, no players intervened." Marini was puzzled by the eye witnesses’ claims.

Whatever version of the truth is correct, the alleged incident suggests that the barras bravas have an alarmingly high level of accessibility to the powers that be within football clubs.

It is the structure of Argentine football clubs that facilitates power for the barras bravas: Given that it is club members who vote for the team president, ‘a rent-a mob is such a useful thing to have’ said BBC Sport’s South American football correspondent Tim Vickery. "They are clearly monsters that the clubs have helped create," he continued.

It is hard to determine whether a change in club structure would limit the powers of the barras bravas. However, it is worth examining the situation at Racing – Argentina’s only sizeable club that is privately owned, following the takeover by Blanquiceleste in 2001.

Racing took the unprecedented step of banning its own barra brava, ‘La Guarda Imperial’, from home matches at the Cilindro de Avellaneda stadium. A step labelled as ‘interesting’ by Vickery, ‘but insufficient on its own to combat hooliganism’. The measure has nevertheless earned the club far reaching plaudits for their efforts in stamping out hooliganism, and the Cilindro is regarded as one of the safest stadiums in the country.

Racing are not without their problems, and to say that there is no supporter influence would be inaccurate: The tenure of current director, Fernando De Tomaso, has been dogged by rumours of corruption. Staff, both playing and non-playing went several months unpaid in 2006-7, and rumours that Blanquiceleste were pocketing club money were rife. This provoked fans to protest on more than one occasion, demanding that De Tomaso hold presidential elections at the club. Many experts predict the owner will step down.

Barra Brava at Boca Juniors Photo by Fabricio Di Dio

Is the problem being dealt with?

This year’s Clausura campaign is just three rounds old, and the trouble surrounding barras bravas does not seem to be going away. ‘Los Borrachos del Tablón’ marked the new season with violent scraps between the rival factions in the Monumental before their opener with Olimpia.

The political will to deal with the problem of football hooliganism, ‘while far from ideal, is stronger than in the past’, said Vickery. Indeed – the interior ministry are intervening, and cases against football hooliganism are getting to the courts.

On 19th February 2006, 35,000 were in attendance at Colón de Santa Fe’s Brigadier General Estanislao López stadium to watch the fixture against River Plate. During the match, a member of Colon’s barra brava, José Gastón Mendoza, pulled out a 17cm blade and stabbed a fellow fan in the chest, back, arms and right wrist. Television cameras were present for the match, and caught the incident on film, and 22 months later, on 22nd December 2007, Mendoza was sentenced to six years imprisonment for attempted murder.

How can the problem be solved?

The barra brava is big businesses: Joel Richards revealed in The Guardian that ‘Los Borrachos del Tablón’ earn approximately $300,000 a month touting tickets, controlling parking areas around River’s stadium and organising away trips for fans. It is also reported that the barra’s already sizeable income is regularly supplemented by cuts received from big money transfers.

Gol Celebration at River Stadium Photo by Maximiliano Neira

Institutional support of the barras bravas is possibly Argentine football’s worst kept secret – River president José María Aguilar in the past has vocalised his admiration of previous leaders of ‘Los Borrachos’, and on one occasion did so on live television.

"Even the most cast iron political will not be enough on its own in solving hooliganism" continued Vickery, citing the close relationship between club management and the fans as an impediment to eradicating the problem.

England is widely regarded as a country that has largely ridded football hooliganism from its domestic leagues. I asked Tim Vickery how England sorted out the problem, and if Argentina can follow suit:

"Increased punishment and enforcement measures are often cited in the English example," said Vickery. "What is often overlooked is that at the same time there was also a profound shift in fan culture – youth culture changed in the late 80s, hooliganism became less fashionable and fans distanced themselves from former practices and found new ways of expressing their support through the fanzine movement, for example. This phenomenon will clearly not repeat itself in the same way in Argentina, but I think it needs to manifest itself in some form. Top down measures will not be enough to solve the problem."

"The onus is also on the supporters to distance themselves from the barras bravas and find new ways of supporting the team. More modern stadiums can obviously play a part in this process, but at the end of the day stadiums are just buildings and laws are just pieces of paper. Without action from the bottom up – by the fans – the problem will not go away."

For more information on barras bravas, please visit www.hastaelgolsiempre.com