Poster

Anyone seeking to take the temperature of Argentina in 2013 could do a lot worse than having a look at a poster that appeared plastered over the walls in Buenos Aires and other cities this morning. As even the casual observer will have appreciated, Argentines are enormously expressive, and the streets of Argentina’s cities are full of pictorial examples of said expression: from captivating street art to angrily imploring graffiti, from posters advertising cultural events and happenings to gratuitous nudity. The city in Argentina breathes communication.

Political adverts, posters that appear overnight and may often be torn down during the next day, are never far from the walls and signposts of Buenos Aires. One likes to imagine that each political group has an army of supporters who are just desperate to scurry out into the night and furtively spread messages of exultation or hatred, depending on the issue du jour, but unfortunately I have seen some of the people who put up the posters and I am fairly sure that this is just a job.

Today’s advert is simple, and to the untrained or uninterested eye, it will be of no consequence. I only saw two copies, and they were on pillars next to each other, during my daily commute; by the time I laid eyes on them, one had been almost entirely torn down and the other looked quite wrinkled. The concept is basic: the face of a fat man, looking knowingly at the observer, on a background that has been divided into two colours – half yellow, half orange. Both the backgrounds have ‘BA’ written on them in the opposing corners, and in very different fonts. Underneath is a slogan in Spanish.

This advert, though simple, is very clever. It has united several themes that will be key to the Argentine government this year and shows clearly who is considered to be the enemy. It is a paranoid, angry, swiping piece of political propaganda, which is entirely typical of an election year.

Let’s start with the background. The yellow and orange, both startling and eye-catching colours by themselves and worse together, are not accidental. The yellow refers to the Buenos Aires City government, led by Buenos Aires City Mayor Mauricio Macri, who even today announced what everybody has known for some time: that he wants to be President, and will run for election in 2015. He is the most obvious enemy, and much money and effort has been put into making a figure of hatred to government supporters – and by Macri supporters in his defence.

Less obvious is the inclusion of the orange background. This is a reference to the government of Buenos Aires province, led by Governor Daniel Scioli, who was vice-president under the late former President Néstor Kirchner. Scioli is the popular governor of the largest province in Argentina (representing 40 percent of the votes) and he is not a dyed in the wool Kirchnerite. It is also apparent that he is seriously considering his political future, and many expect Scioli to run for President in 2015 – not in allegiance with President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner. As a result, the national government has again spent a lot of time, money and effort in making him an enemy, goading him in the same way they have Macri. The problem for the government is that, while Macri is keen and up for a fight, Scioli is not. The Teflon Don, as he has been referred to, is playing the long game and refusing to fight. This has only made the government angrier.

The next figure attacked in the advert is the fat man, Jorge Lanata. Lanata is famous for many reasons, not least of all for being one of the founders of pro-government newspaper Pagina/12. He was forcibly ejected, but in the last year he has enjoyed something of a renaissance – as a key opposition figure. Lanata’s weekly Sunday night show ‘Periodismo Para Todos’ (Journalism for All), riffing on the government’s trend to put ‘para todos’ on anything within reach, aimed to present investigative journalism into key Argentine issues. The result was thousands of viewers for his broadcasters (Canal 12, owned by opposition media group Clarín), and his launching as a recognizable face of anti-government reporting. Lanata’s show was often in the unique position among Argentine TV of setting the political debate for the week following its broadcast, as the government rushed to refute allegations made by his team of investigators.

The line in Spanish bringing everything together is another riff on an opposition show. This time, the message refers to a series (also broadcast by the Clarín Group’s Canal 12) which is about losing weight, called ‘Cuestion de Peso’ – in English, this translates to ‘Weighty Question.’ However, on the advert, the line is ‘Cuestión de Pe$o$’ – ‘A Matter of Pesos’, the local currency. In this one line, the authors of the advert have made it clear that the issue here is money, while at the same time taking a dig at Lanata for his weight.

No government spokesperson nor government-affiliated group claimed responsibility for the advert, but the message is loud and clear. Facing up to the midterm elections scheduled to be held in October, the government’s enemies in 2013 are: Macri, Scioli, Lanata and Clarín. And, of course, there is one thing that unites all of these groups – money.

This advert is eye-catching and disgusting. It is offensive, unprovoked, cunning and malicious. It is a piece of work that would not be allowed or even tolerated in most other truly democratic states. However, it is also well-timed, and as a depiction of animosity, as an underlining of the ‘us vs them’ mentality espoused by the ‘national project’ of the present administration, it is brutally effective. This City does indeed breathe communication.   

Potbanging

Regardless of how many people were actually out on the streets on Thursday, it was an extremely impressive sight. Landmarks and central avenues teemed with people, not just in Buenos Aires but all over the country, and the squares were full of pot-bangers. A friend of mine went to the Plaza de Mayo at 7pm, fully expecting a few hundred at most; by 7.50pm, it was full and the entrances were crammed full of people. Despite the political expression against the government, and the presence of some neo-Nazis, the atmosphere was amazingly positive – it brought to mind images of the bicentennial celebrations in 2010 or a carnival in a hotter neighbouring country. This celebratory protest was Thursday night’s greatest strength – and its fundamental flaw.

For all of its preaching, Kirchnerism, the name given to the constantly-shifting political philosophy allegedly guiding the actions of President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner and her followers, is not an inclusive political movement. Through its repeated insistence on a ‘national project’, Kirchnerism thrives on creating an ‘us’ v ‘them’ ideology. You’re with us, or you’re against us. In this context, it is an easy choice to make: become a Kirchnerite (or a K, as they are both referred to derogatively and proudly describe themselves), and accept and agree with what our leader says and does, even if you don’t.

Faced with that choice, it’s easy to be an anti-K. If you don’t like having to keep all your savings in a currency that is devaluating on a daily basis, albeit slowly, or if you happen to think that tax agencies shouldn’t really be keeping tabs on what you do in your spare time, then you’re against the government. If you think that continuous re-elections smack of autocracy, or that teenagers who can’t legally drive or stand for election should be forced to vote to choose a President is just plain preposterous, then you are firmly in the ‘them’ department. Realistically, it is hard for people who were born and at least partly raised outside Argentina to sympathize with a government who sees it as its right to nationalize private companies (including pension institutions, airlines, energy companies and football broadcasters) but doesn’t have the money to fix its trains.

However, within the polarized political arena known as Argentine society, opposition may seem like an easy option, but it isn’t. The political leaders nominally representing opposition to the government are lightweight, past it or undercooked, depending on which one you choose. It’s easy to tell which ones the government sees as a threat, because those are the people the Kirchnerites try to undermine financially (see Buenos Aires province Governor Daniel Scioli and Córdoba Governor José Manuel de la Sota) or legally (see Buenos Aires City Mayor Mauricio Macri). The rest, from the Radicals to the Broad Progressive Front (FAP) are doomed by their laudably high principles – they simply cannot give ground without losing moral strength. And they cannot form alliances with other parties, because their own parties are equally good at lamenting the present as remembering long-standing grudges.

Thus, there is no real opposition, helped by the government’s ability to position itself so that on any key issue, whether it be expropriation, re-election or giving teens the vote, at least some of each party will agree with the concept and back it accordingly. The people know this, and they are angry: those on the streets on Thursday were clearly aiming their ire at the opposition as much as the national government.

As far as I can tell, or based on what I’ve learned in four years here, this government exists to fight. Kirchnerism was born out of the ashes of the last major economic crisis in 2001-2, in which the middle class lost their future. Kirchnerism has provided the same victims of 2001-2 with the means of building something new, an Argentina that does not depend on outside influences and that generates its own strengths. A steady stream of enemies has assisted this growth process: both externally (the IMF, the British and the Spanish, to name a few) and internally (Macri and the farms, among others).

But, as last year’s election, in which Fernández de Kirchner romped home with 54 percent of the vote, clearly shows, there is no political opposition. There are no more real enemies outside Kirchnerism. This means that, sooner or later, the government was bound to start turning on itself. Kirchnerism will eat itself. If in doubt, just ask Vice-President Amado Boudou.

The real problem facing the thousands of people who filled the streets on Thursday night is that they have no single, unified goal. Their gripes, as justified as they are, are many. Their anger has one target, which is fine, but offers no solution.

Pot-banging has a sacred place in Argentina’s recent history, emblematic of the protests that brought down Fernando de la Rúa’s government in 2001 and that echoed during the Resolution 125 farm crisis in 2008. The difference in 2012 is that protestors have nothing to offer but anger, and therefore, at the moment they are likely to still go home empty-handed.  

60th

Recently I took a transatlantic flight with a well-known Brazilian airline. At Ezeiza, I bought legroom, which was quite reasonably priced considering they used to give it away for free. The Argentine ground crew rep paused, and then asked: “Do you speak Portuguese?” As luck would have it, I do, although I would be the first to admit that it’s quite rusty. When I asked why, the Argentine shook his head. “It’s these Brazilians,” he said. “Their air crews are 100% Brazilian, and are not required to speak Spanish or English. They’re so nationalistic. Can you believe it?”

An Argentine complaining about the nationalism of others. As anyone who lives in Argentina will testify, including a large proportion of locals, nationalism is a very Argentine trait. However, as someone explained to me recently, there is a clear difference between Argentine nationalism and Brazilian patriotism. Brazilians truly love their country and will continually gush forth about its wonders. Argentines, on the other hand, are both cynical by nature and fully aware of their country’s shortcomings – but will not countenance any criticism of their country by someone who is not from there.

Perhaps it’s fitting that these thoughts are bouncing round my brain on the 60^th anniversary of the death of a person who, for better or worse, entirely transformed Argentina. Eva Perón’s short life and work have influenced this country for over half a century, and her mystique is a key allure to thousands if not millions of tourists to Argentina on an annual basis. However, her actual role in contemporary Argentina remains as divisive as her revolutionary labour politics and communication techniques were during her lifetime.

Exhibit A was provided last night, with yet another demagoguery-tinged speech by President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, with the portrait of Evita behind her. CFK yesterday announced that the highest legal tender in the country, namely the 100-peso bill, would now carry the face of Evita. Not Perón, her husband, the twice-President and in some respects the reason why she even had a platform to speak from. Evita. In broad terms, this would be the equivalent of putting a key figure of the last century on bills – say, Martin Luther King on a note in the US, or Princess Diana in the UK.

Naturally, this is a highly Marmite decision, and has accordingly split the country – just as the choice of Madonna to play her in Alan Parker’s 1997 film of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical did. However, Evita and her veneration or denigration plays into the hands of nationalists of all ilks, as her image can be skewed to represent…well, pretty much whatever you want. She is a symbol of struggle, an embodiment of virtue, the encapsulation of innocence or the permanent reminder of when exactly Argentina went down the tubes. Depending on who one talks to, she can be any of these things and many more.

That is a key aspect to Evita, and to Peronism. Yesterday, during the events to commemorate her “passing into immortality” 60 years ago, speech after speech was laid at her altar by worshippers of all political stripes – but, as several people pointed out, the majority focused on what she represented, an entirely different thing each time, rather than what she did. What Evita represents, in the eye of the beholder, will always be of greater relevance than what she achieved. That’s why Argentines grimace when troops of tourists file past her tomb in Recoleta each day, where she lies surrounded by the oligarchs who she despised and sought to destroy – only a true Argentine will really understand what she means, or what she has come to mean.

Although we are only seven and a half months into 2012, this has been a year of nationalism. Whether the issue is the 30th anniversary of a war, the 60th anniversary of a death or the veneration of 50 goals by a famous footballer, the message is clear: to the outside world, Argentina is united, taking all comers, especially those who seek to undermine or criticise - because by doing so, we can briefly forget that, on the inside, unity is fleeting, and the future is very bleak. 

Queues

Living in Argentina is experiencing the same events that the locals do and learning to shrink the divide between their reactions and your reactions. What this sounds like is cultural integration, immersion into another world. What this means in practice is getting annoyed in supermarkets and learning how to queue.

Just a few days ago, I experienced the former. Having picked a time to go to the supermarket that ensured I would not run into the heaving commuter mob (most weekdays, 6-9 pm) or the shuffling OAPs (bizarrely, Monday and Wednesday from 10 am-2 pm), I neatly traversed the aisles at 5 pm on a Friday afternoon, snatching the few items I needed and choosing a queue that was moving quite quickly. The woman in front of us was the only thing that stood between us and an entirely efficient, successful and rapid shopping trip. I mentally winked at cultural integration.

However, everything quickly unraveled. The woman in front of us, I noticed casually, had no items. All she had was a bill. It turned out that she was paying her supermarket credit card bill. Great, she has the cash, she’ll cough up, we’ll move along. But something was wrong. Things had slowed down. I was near and nosy enough to see how much she owed, a cool $650 in the local currency, and worryingly she was tipping out the contents of her handbag. It turned out that she was short – by $1.50. Not $150, but 1 peso 50 centavos.

The system ground to a halt. Both the woman in question and the teller recognized the folly of the issue, the woman pleading slightly while the teller looked around nervously for someone to pass the buck to. There was nobody. Eventually, a superior arrived. Her blank stares were not encouraging. Behind us, the queue stretched down the aisle and even into the cold meats and cheese section. A crescendo of mutterings began in the docile supermarket. The staff started to look worried. Mutiny was just around the corner.

The problem was fixed in the end, sort of. The woman escaped, never looking back, her shoulders shuddering with what we knew was shame. We had been in the queue for twenty-five minutes. Therein lies the issue: we were all in the same queue, all consumers, all with better things to do, all aware that all she needed was $1.50 – but did we lend her the cash to speed her on her way and make it easier for ourselves? Did we heck. The steely silence of the supermarket at 5:30 pm on a Friday resounded with the thought: this is your problem, you fix it.

This Argentine trait, the grim determination to let individuals struggle in front of our eyes, is neatly juxtaposed by the grim determination to recognize when we are being manipulated but to let it occur regardless. To illustrate this second trait, I present you with Exhibit B: the SUBE card.

When I arrived most recently in BA, in 2008, there was an extreme coin shortage. For a society whose public transport depended on coins, from $1.10 for a subway (Subte) trip to the bizarre 80 cents for a bus trip, a dearth of coins was little short of disastrous. A colleague, also a foreigner, kept a certain amount of coins in the third desk of his drawer at work. I’m not exactly sure how many coins he had, but it cannot have been much less than $200 worth. You can tell that society is in trouble when the $1 coin is much more valuable than the $2 note.

The powers that be reacted slowly to this situation. Rumours of money-laundering or coin smuggling rings with government ties abounded. However, by 2010 a solution had been identified and was created: first, the Monedero card, which allowed Subte users to purchase tickets in advance, and then the SUBE card, for both the Subte and buses.

The original concept was straightforward: if you want to make things easier for yourself, you buy the card. The majority of people actually purchased SUBE with this in mind. The commute became easier, coins almost obsolete.

However, at the end of 2011, with the ‘voluntary’ renouncement of subsidies on utilities, it became clear that public transport was going to get the same treatment. In January, a vague announcement from the Transport Secretary suggested that by February 9, all subsidies would be removed and the prices increased dramatically on public transport. He did not specify by how much, nor did he have to. The only way to keep receiving the subsidized prices was through using a SUBE card.

Widespread panic ensued. Everyone had to get hold of a SUBE card. Temporary outposts were established across the city, with consumers queuing to get their hands on a SUBE by February 9. January, of course, is the hottest month in Argentina, and one would have to queue for at least one hour in the heat.

With a nation’s desperation to queue becoming apparent once again, at no point did anybody stop to ask: by exactly how much is public transport going to rise? The City government already raised the Subte price by 125% to the whopping $2.25; many worried that the same would be true for the bus. However, no details were given. The people of Buenos Aires queued, because they had been told they had to, without total justification.

As the deadline neared, the inevitable happened: the Transport Secretary announced that it had been extended by one month. Data on the actual increase was still unavailable, but the Secretary promised that it would be made clear “some days before the subsidies are removed.” Forgive me for casting aspersions, but it appears that this government regulation is being made up on the spot.

There is another slightly unnerving aspect to the SUBE issue. In order to receive a card, you have to give your DNI or passport number. The positive is that only you can use the card, and that if it is lost it is easily replaceable. The less attractive part, which has been suggested recently by government sources and the Transport Secretary himself, is that once the subsidies have been removed, the administration has considered determining how much we pay for public transport based on our income.

I’m not sure which aspect is more disturbing: that the government could track my movements through public transport or that it could determine how much I pay for a (fairly average) service based on how much I earn. The implications are not good.

However, as a society, there is no opposition here; just a mad rush to queue in the impossible heat so as not to get caught out when an unspecified change is implemented. We move like sheep, to the beat of a drum that we can hear but not see, but we have no choice. If we want to participate in this world, we have to play by its rules; that is true cultural immersion.

Post Office

Every time I pass the national government’s Communications offices, a grand building situated near Puerto Madero and a stone’s throw from the most significant government buildings (the Labour Ministry, the Casa Rosada, et al), I am in awe. It reminds me of when I first saw it, years ago, before I understood the power of Communications, or rather, what the word meant, both for the world in general and for Argentina in particular. I always thought that it was a bit too smart to be a Post Office.

Communication, as a profession, is about the expression of meaning. Meaning is more often than not interpreted as truth, but real communications, I have learnt, it just about getting your point (or somebody else’s point) across effectively. The truth has little to do with it.

This is especially true in Argentina, a society that professes itself to be governed by opposites. You either support the government or you oppose it; you either like Boca Juniors or River Plate; we are colonialists or they are. This society is based on the demonstration of opposites as the only two certainties, but what makes the society strong is the weakness of the same opposites. There is no such thing here as truth or lie, good or bad, right or wrong; instead, what this society is based on is everything in between.

In terms of where that leaves public figures and their relations with ordinary people, there seems to be a tacit agreement based on the fact that politicians and the rest will always present their opinions in the most simplistic terms possible, couched within extremes, and the people will nod and vote in the knowledge that Othe extremes are a total invention. It is a fantastic example of democracy: in a world where no-one is ever really held accountable for anything, one can do or say exactly what one likes, so long as one is able to get one’s point across.

As a result, the machinations of Argentine politics (and indeed society as a whole) are like one enormous private joke, but a joke that is so complicated and convoluted that it only makes sense if you heard the beginning. There are people that know more of the joke than others, but for most it is a baffling web of multiple meanings sponsored by individuals or groups or movements, creating an endless conveyor belt of statements, facts, beliefs, messages. To say Communications is a vital industry here is an understatement: without it, Argentina as we know it would simply not be possible.

One obvious conclusion to draw is that in an environment where there is so much meaning it is almost impossible to discern the truth. However, we can rest assured that there are undoubtedly people in Argentina who have seen and heard the punchline in the private joke, and somebody somewhere is laughing.

CABJ

As I left the paper on Sunday night, my worst fears were confirmed. The street, normally deserted save for people playing football on the five-a-side pitches and those who live under the highway, was heaving under the human and vehicular traffic. Hordes of jubilant or triumphant fans marched out of Boca, and cars were unable to move. There were no buses; I had no money in my wallet. I would have to walk.

Boca Juniors won the local football tournament at approximately 9 pm that Sunday evening. Thanks to a stubborn defensive record (the team let in four goals all season and lost no games), the title was already practically in their clutches; a win would do the trick. As a result, the celebrations started early, even before the 7 pm kick-off. What can only be presumed as fireworks thundered in the distance, and then closer, and then below and around and above the newspaper’s building. Windows shook. Sometimes it sounded very much like gunfire, as if an invasion was underway. I tried to ignore these thoughts, focus on writing the news, but the echoes of distant explosions continued through the night.

I left work shortly after 10 pm. My previous experiences with Boca fans coloured my approach to the prospect of walking home in their midst: the first game that I attempted to see in Argentina, in 2006, had seen me mugged and stripped of all valuables before entering the ground. It would be hyperbolic to compare the experience with a rape, but at the time, that was how it felt. The lingering distaste, anger and even fear still make it hard for me to actually enjoy walking in a crowd of Boca fans, jubilant or not.

On the other hand, as I had discovered in articles I had recently written about the club, the only people who can really afford to go to matches nowadays are the wealthy, tourists and those hooligan gang members who get distributed tickets and do little else in their lives. I knew that so long as I was close to the source of their joy, I would be safe.

I walked among them along Paseo Colón, heading towards Independencia Avenue, because I knew there were cashpoints there that could help me escape the horde. The fans were, more than anything, exceptionally pleased with themselves. These were football fans at their best, as people from all walks of life, wearing the blue-yellow-blue strip, greeted each other jovially and rejoiced. The man who sits on a mattress surrounded by dogs smiled a toothless grin at me and asked me how I was. A motorcyclist dawdled on the pavement, beatific smile plastered across his features.

In San Telmo proper, the mix of tourists and locals started to become more pronounced, and my hand lingered around my pocket as I entered the sealed-off cashpoint. A Gothic youth shook his head: both machines were empty. My heart sank, but I left, crossed Independencia and trudged towards the Plaza de Mayo. On the first corner I passed, a man sprawled, half in the street and half on the pavement, semi-conscious, a litre of Budweiser propped against his chest.

The cobbled streets drew me further, past more tourist spots filled to the brim, with occasional marching gangs shouting Boca slogans and wielding flags. Near Belgrano Avenue, towards the actual Plaza itself, the streets become more menacing. There had been a power failure, and several roads were blocked, and as my feet crunched broken glass and splintered wood, I could feel the presence of others in the darkness, near and around me.

At a corner, a man sat in a wheelchair, clutching his fake leg to his bosom, talking to an aged prostitute. Neither took the slight bit of interest in my presence. The woman was drinking wine out of a paper bag, which seemed faintly ridiculous: why bother with the bag?

Next to the Plaza itself, I found working cashpoints, and my heart soared. I could now leave this semi-dark existence and return to home, cosy, safe, peaceful home. I walked towards the Cabildo, and started to encounter a different kind of fan: those who had not set foot in the stadium that day. A group of five or six youths were standing by the subway entrance, banging several drums and greeting all the cars that drove past. I crossed towards the Cabildo itself, and instantly one of the group detached himself and stood next to me before the crossing.

Dressed in a vest and filthy jeans, the man had eyes that seemed unable to focus, and he waved his hands and made small jumps as if in a state of untold bliss. I crossed quickly, and then I realised that he had crossed ahead of me, was actually walking around me, circling me and coming up close behind me. I clutched my bag to my chest, and he looked at me, seeing through me, and his arms flew forward.

I ran. Sprinted straight away, driven by total fear. I ran towards the deserted Plaza, not even thinking about the oncoming traffic, which swept around me. I could easily have been hit, it just wasn’t playing on my mind. I had to escape. Once across, I looked behind me to see if the man was following me, but he just stood there, shaking slightly under the Cabildo arches.

My fear drove me to cross the street too quickly, almost being hit again, but I had to move. I walked up Saenz Peña, noticing a large group of youths on the other side of the street, following a middle-aged lady. I stopped, almost hid. The group passed the lady and continued, but there was a tangible menace in the hot air that seeped into everything that moved.

Close to Corrientes, I found a taxi, with a driver who spoke without opening his mouth. I didn’t care, I needed to leave. The car set off, stopping several times to let large groups of fans pass. Almost every group touched or banged the car as it stood stationary. The driver said something inaudible and we moved on.

As we drew nearer to 9 de Julio, and the Obelisk, the dull thuds started again. The sound of explosions, and never the flashes. Only when we actually came to cross the street were the white flashes of light visible. The taxi carefully maneuvered past straggles of people, and I turned to my right to gaze upon the Obelisk itself. Surrounded by people, with yellow and blue banners waving, immersed in a mist of smoke and noise. More than a celebration, it appeared to be a pagan ritual, as the crowd shifted and danced around the tower. The normally busy street lay deserted, except for the revolutionary fervour sweeping the adulating football fans. It was like a window into another world.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, except for the dangers presented by the uniformly terrible driving of our fellow motorists. I arrived home safe and sound, but my hand was shaking when I put the key into the lock.

Parsley

In recent weeks Argentina has become incensed by the kidnap and murder of an 11-year-old girl and the subsequent fallout. The case is shrouded by confusion and has somehow gained media coverage in a way that would suggest that the country is frustrated by ennui and has a desire to vent.

It started innocuously enough. Candela Rodríguez left her house in a humble neighbourhood in Hurlingham, Buenos Aires province, to meet up with some Scout group friends on August 22, but never made it. What followed were nine days of agonizing searching and constant demonstrations, led by her mother, Carola Labrador. The search was eventually extended to several neighbouring countries. Just over a week after her disappearance, the girl was found dead in a bag by the side of the motorway.

Aside from the fact that the kidnap and murder of a pubescent girl is essentially abhorrent, what exactly is so special about Candela? She was not the first girl to disappear in Argentina and not the first this year. However, her disappearance, barely a week after President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner posted a massive ‘victory’ in the primaries, seemingly nullifying any suggestion that she would not be re-elected in the October presidential elections, was taken up by local politicians, civil rights groups, celebrities and politicians as an issue that had to be addressed.

What was unclear from the start, and remains so today even after nine arrests, is what the motive behind her kidnapping was. This did not prevent the immediate supposition by several civil rights groups that Candela was kidnapped as part of a human trafficking ring. Outcry ensued. The President herself received a weeping Labrador at the Pink House. The mother insisted that the girl would be found, but wise heads sagely and forlornly believed that Candela had already been shipped north.

Until her body was found, about 30 blocks from where she lived. The discovery of Candela’s body turned the entire case on its head, as human traffickers evaporated and a motive gap emerged. It was then revealed that Labrador had received an attempt at a ransom or extorsion; on the same evening, it emerged that Candela’s father was in prison for motorway stick-ups. Before long, whisperings of drug involvement started to bubble up to the surface, and suggestions that other members of her family were involved in the drug trade, including perhaps her mother who might have known the kidnappers, made Candela’s case unique, more disturbing, and increasingly obscure.

Suddenly everyone looked sheepish. Several bandwagons that had been settled in for the long term vanished into the horizon, including the actors who declared a march in Candela’s name on Wednesday evening only to cancel it on Thursday morning. The media was not, and indeed has not been able to decide what the focus of the case is, torn between an ineffective or inept provincial police force (how was Candela undiscovered by 2,000 policemen if she was being held only 30 blocks from her home?), political focus on crime afflicting Buenos Aires (predominantly related to sex and drugs), or the grimy underside of a humble suburb.

One of the most amazing u-turns in the whole story has undoubtedly been the fall from grace of her family. The rapid shift of focus from distressed mother to drug-related criminality has exposed a sneering elitism behind Argentine media that calls to mind the reaction to Shannon Matthews’ ‘kidnap’ in the UK in 2008. The fact that the girl’s extended family seems to live in the area in which she was kidnapped and also be involved in activities that arouse suspicion has led to a media machine intent on digging up yet more dirt on characters that were previously portrayed as victims. So much for the benefits of the 24-hour rolling news cycle.

In terms of how politicians have dealt with the case, their approach has been far from measured. Opposition figures have leapt on the opportunity to slam an already besieged provincial police force in a province that accounts for 40% of Argentina’s electorate. The province governor, Daniel Scioli, encouraged sharp criticism for his arrival of the scene where Candela’s body was found by helicopter, leading to suggestions that her body had actually been discovered earlier than admitted and that the governor was waiting for the photographers to be ready.

Prosecutors have admitted to be overwhelmed and to be searching for a motive. The subsequent arrest of nine people, including a 75-year-old mechanic and his son, has not revealed an alleged ring of professional kidnappers and murderers, but a confused bunch of local characters, none of whom really fit the bill (two carpenters, two mechanics, a local drugs dealer, a beauty salon worker…). Parsley, synonymous in this country with innocence, has literally been thrown at some of the suspects’ houses in sprigs. More people get arrested by the day, and others have already been released. Perhaps hugging Candela’s mother at the Pink House wasn’t such a great idea after all.

Other commentators have already suggested that the case is so huge because Argentines are desperate for something of interest when faced with the probability that the President will be re-elected in October. What better than a case that seems to unite drugs, inept and/or crooked coppers, ineffective politicians, and a family of criminals to remind Argentina that, in a year of elections, there is more to the country than voting.

In that sense, it is unlikely that the real motivations behind Candela’s kidnap and murder will ever become clear. The only certainty in this case is that a young girl died tragically in a country where innocence is a precious commodity.