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.

Bicentenary Revisited

It is no great statement to say that Buenos Aires is an angry or at least frustrated city. Nothing here works properly. Ask any foreigner and you will be greeted with a barrage of complaints, like taking a warm shower on a cold day: a predictably reassuring stream of malaise. It’s difficult to take the temperature of how Argentines themselves actually feel about their city, because there will always be something to complain about. This is part of its charm; if foreigners really want to experience the best of Buenos Aires, then they have to find the right things to complain about.

However, recently I have noticed a creeping frustration in the way that porteños speak about their city. All of its social and political systems are showing signs of creaking decay. It is an election year, which should herald a sweeping out of the cobwebs of failed political hegemonies and replacing them with bright shiny new ones, but, this being Argentina, not one real leader has emerged to challenge the President, with the closest to a real opposition figure choosing to run for mayor again instead, and nine other demi-clowns choosing to have a go instead. Of course, there are plenty of candidates, plenty of campaigns, but as the result appears to be such a foregone conclusion the question dancing around everybody’s mind is what exactly is the point.

The sense of frustration is not just political though. The slide to relegation of one of the twin favourite brothers of local Argentine soccer, River Plate, was as frustratingly slow as it was inevitable. The viral video hit of the irate middle-aged fan cursing his television set sparks widespread amusement, but really this man is the only one who is externalizing the sheer desperation of it all.

Argentina’s international team were supposed to win the Copa América, held on their home turf this past July, in order to regain some of the glory lost under the embarrassment of the Diego Maradona reign, which culminated in the limp defeat against Germany last summer in South Africa. But instead the frustration continued, as a team whose combined worth dwarfed absolutely every other team in the competition scored an own goal against Bolivia, no goals against Colombia, three goals against an Under-23 side from Costa Rica and lost on penalties to Uruguay. This was a failure. The only people who really cared about the tournament were supposed to be the players, but their performance suggested that even they were disinterested.

And then there’s the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, a heroic civil rights organization slipping into the mire through either cack-handed financial management or criminal money laundering. And the Grandmothers, who have spent the better part of a decade claiming that the children of the owner of the Clarín media group were the “appropriated” children of persons disappeared in the last military dictatorship, only for the same children to take DNA tests and prove that this was not the case. And the country continues to grow economically, while inflation rises unchecked. And so on.

As I said at the start, Argentina is frustrated, but now more so than ever. Election years should be about hope (Obama 2008), change (Cameron & Clegg 2010), or at least the suggestion that either of those things could be around the corner. At this point, 14 months on from the Bicentennial celebrations, which were impressive but effectively meaningless, the only thing that has changed is that people seem less jubilant, less angry, and are more accepting of disappointment. For a Latin American country famed for its passion, frustration, that most British of imports, is becoming a national characteristic.

Dentist

It’s fair to say that my new life has substantially changed my outlook on the world in which I live. For one thing, I feel more connected with this country, with this city. The office environment I used to inhabit was fine, up to a point, and the perspective and objectivity I learned while working there will be invaluable to me for the rest of my life. However, my office colleagues, with their wildly contrasting beliefs and ideas but ever-present respect for the opinions of others, would have long debates about things to do with this culture that I could never fully grasp. The argument itself, fine; but as I had no connection with what they were talking about, did not understand the basic facts, I could not offer an opinion and was therefore isolated. Again I learned that my understanding of this country and this people would always be limited – detailed, but still superficial.

My new job not only expects that I lack knowledge about a lot to do with this city and this country, but it demands that I work hard to learn. To fill in my own gaps. This is a fantastic experience for me. I’m told to cover a story, and I realize that in order to do so effectively I have to understand more about where the parties involved are coming from. I am forced to expand what I know about pretty much everything. The difference is that in my previous job there were buffers, cotton wool walls that allowed me to bounce gently off ideas; in my new place of work, opinions have to be formed and facts have to be learned in the blink of an eye in order to be able to work effectively.

There is also a great deal of focus on individuals and what they represent. No politician is just a politician – they are the current incarnation of an ever-changing thought process. Each person that we write about is important because of what has come before them and what they might do in the future. Our trade is the present, but the present is only given as much value as we put into it.

I have also found myself learning things that nobody would ever have thought to tell me. This week I have learned a lot about brutal murders. The reason for this is simple: an individual who has spent a lot of time in the news for a lot of reasons (the list includes potential money laundering, which bounces into state responsibility of public funds, the role of civil rights movements in contemporary Argentina, and so on) is also a convicted murderer. Nobody seems to care. This may be an indictment of the dark past that is sometimes eluded to in shadowy references, a past that nobody wants to talk about because touching on it produces such a confused explosion of emotion – but that’s nothing to do with this one individual. He and his brother were convicted of a horrific murder, and a murder of no less than their parents; last week he ‘resigned’ as the funds manager for a massive civil rights organization. One simply couldn’t make this up.

Last week an elderly gentleman was being interviewed by one of the major TV stations, so I enquired as to his identity. Who’s the gent in the specs? Ah, that’s what’s-his-name, the dentist who got so fed up of living with his wife, mother-in-law and nagging daughters that he blew them all away with a shotgun. He’s just got out of prison. I saw him the other day buying a newspaper, pipes up a colleague.

[That sound in the back of your mind is your mental jaw dropping. I know what it sounds like, believe me.]

And there he is, on TV, breezily chatting about what it feels like to be out and how he’d happily have done the same thing again. There is nothing terrifying about him as a person, except for what he’s capable of and has done as a person. It’s hard to fear him; many people empathize with him. I can’t, just yet.

And then there were the two boys who… Actually, as I’m starting to discover, the list is endless. And each case individually reveals particular aspects of Argentine society that you won’t see written about in guidebooks or even talked about in films or on TV. This is an extremely complicated country. I feel like I’m just scratching the surface.

On a final note, this morning I was in a shop, when I saw a little old man with specs walking by clutching a document wallet. From the back he looked identical to the killer dentist. Without realizing what I was doing, I was suddenly following him, walking behind, trying to guess where he was going so I could get in front of him, and when I did, what I’d say to him. And I stopped. Of course I had nothing to say to him. I just wanted to see, to touch him, to make sure that he was real.

Alem y San Martin 6:05 pm Monday

Buenos Aires is the city where I have lived longest. As such, it will always be alive to me. It is beautiful, sexy, glorious, dishonest and filthy. The concept of truth is cheap and mercurial here: everything depends on the eye of the beholder and whether the beholder is having a good day. The city and its people are by turns welcoming and unforgiving; this is a city that hates and loves in the same breath, but it breathes, it moves and it is alive.

My bus on the way to work passed an olive green 1970s Ford Falcon, broken down in the middle of a busy road. The sight of the car still makes me shiver.

From the tenth floor of an office building on the corner of Plaza San Martín, one can see a snapshot of Buenos Aires resplendent, particularly in the glowing twilight of early evening. To the left there is Retiro, almost invisible, obscured by the politely dominant clocktower. Built by the British when the British were still openly respected (but never loved), its four faces are vital yet often disagree. The tower stands surrounded by a quaint little fence in a pleasant square and although it is passed by hundreds of thousands of people on a daily basis, it is probably the monument in Buenos Aires that has been least-defiled by graffiti. The graffiteurs, strangely, respect the fence.

To the right, Alem, the business district avenue, stretches into the middle distance, flanked by tall, proud office buildings that are only remarkable because they are set against the wide horizon of the river behind. The towers themselves seem dated, and have no bearing on the lives of the antlike beings scurrying at their feet. In the distance, new monuments are rising in Puerto Madero, designed for gawping rather than inhabiting. Glass pantheons that will stand in tribute to an imagined progress that has yet to materialize – a testament to a city that often forgets itself, stretching beyond the present to a projected future that may never make it.

And in the center of the frame, beyond the depressingly predictable Sheraton, lies the river. The ‘silver river’, as the Spanish first called it, and which for decades has been nothing but brown, thick like Willy Wonka’s chocolate river – except that isn’t chocolate. Two centuries of overuse and under-cleansing have left it tired and worn.

And yet…

When the sun is setting...when the sky is so clear that the casual observer can see Uruguay on the far bank…when the storm clouds have turned the sky to pitch and a small sliver of light penetrates the dark to cast a silver line across the moody surface…The river is Buenos Aires, and it is beautiful.

Adventist

The lady who comes to clean my flat twice a week handed in her notice via SMS at 11:30 pm the other night. She’s a hard worker, and in the almost three years that we have been in our particular commercial partnership, she has had to put up with a lot, including hoax (but no less terrifying) kidnapping threats, living with a dog for a few months (a new experience for both of us) and a lot of cleaning up on mornings after. I have absolutely no complaints: she has been loyal and dependable but now wants to spend more time looking after her children. I wish her well.

Now the search starts for a replacement. In other cultures this might be viewed as an entirely pointless exercise: why looking for a cleaning lady when by doing so one is admitting that one cannot clean up after oneself? In Latin America, however, the opposite is the norm: one leads such busy lives that one simply cannot be expected to clean up after oneself. A little lazy, perhaps, but it has worked fine for me.

The problem is finding a person one can rely on. This is an employee, about whom one normally knows the bare minimum, who will be working in one’s house while one is at work. There is hardly ever any personal interaction: I think I saw my previous cleaning lady about ten times in person over something close to thirty months. Every month I left her payment on the kitchen table, and when I came back from work it was gone. I never saw her, but I knew when she had come: my floor was clean, my dishes washed, my clothes ready to be worn, my bed made. This is a person who exists in spaces that are to me entirely intimate and yet I never see her. Trust is therefore paramount: she is an almost total stranger and she knows more about my daily life than most of my closest friends.

One often hears tales of things going wrong with such employees. A friend of mine came home early once to find their employee going through the belongings of someone who was on holiday in the belief that because they had left the country, they wouldn’t be needing their snail shell facial cream; another had a pair of crutches disappear for a week or so only to just as mysteriously reappear; one friend became so convinced that his employee was taking money from him that he set up a hidden camera to catch her unawares.

A colleague recently told me about one of the strangest reasons I’ve heard to dismiss a cleaning lady. His had been working for him for over ten years, was reliable and cleaned very well – a total professional. Once he came home early for a doctor’s appointment, and opened the door only to walk in on a meeting of about fifteen Adventists, bibles in hand. His flat had become their meeting hall; the employee had to go. Cleaning and religion just don’t mix.

Brontosauri

Every morning I am greeted by a familiar sight that reminds me exactly what my journey to work means. I get to the street corner, the sun hits me and washes me in heat and light, and the buses rumble past. Hundreds. Each clad in its own distinctive, often garish colours. They move like a confused pack, each individual unit with its own thought-processes and desires bubbling beneath the surface, forced to follow the same path as the others by the herd mentality (otherwise known as ‘traffic’). When the light goes green, these lumbering beasts charge forward, stumbling at speed, like a pack of brontosauri thundering across a prehistoric plain towards water. These ancient beasts breathe smoke that taints the air and stains our lungs; without them, we would never get to work on time.

The late ariser or lazy commuter is sometimes forced to take a taxi for expediency’s sake. The taxis are nimble, as they must be, for they are forced to travel in the wake and very thoroughfare trodden by the larger beasts. The taxi sees things from the ground level; the bus driver cannot. They are never friends. The amount of near misses alone between these two species alone contributes to the general chaotic atmosphere in the streets of our great city. We would be lost without either of them.

This week, the government of the City of Buenos Aires, in its infinite wisdom, changed all the bus routes. It happened on a Wednesday, for reasons that are not clear. The change also coincided with the return to work of several thousand holiday-makers who had fled the punishing summer heat. In short, it was timed to cause maximum chaos, and it succeeded. Literally thousands of people headed to where they normally caught their bus home, only to find that the bus stop no longer existed. Directions were given to a new stop, which in many cases was up to five or six blocks away, and never in a straight line. The bus routes were altered completely; the commute had been permanently affected.

I waited for my particular bus, but it was clear that the people in charge hadn’t counted on a) +30 degrees in mid-summer and b) the fact that their drivers were also intensely confused by the changes. After waiting at what seemed to be an improvised bus stop but could easily have been another lane on the busiest avenue in the world, burning gently in the afternoon sun, a bus finally arrived. We climbed on, fighting our way through the already cramped space with our heads held high like divers struggling for air.

The man in charge with steering our particular dinosaur was having a tough time from the off, as we sailed past streets that used to be bus stops to be greeted by furious demands by passengers which he could only counter with ‘but it’s not a stop anymore…’ Moreover, the way he was driving and the route he was taking heavily implied that he had no idea what he was doing, or in fact was making it up as he went along – a supposition that was not removed as he drifted from the uttermost right-hand lane to the extreme left of a seriously busy avenue as if he had just learned to drive. All around one could catch glimpses of similarly confused pedestrians and bus-drivers, as the brontosauri launched into new adventures praying that they wouldn’t hit anyone or each other. Once the journey got going, the new route was actually much quicker than the old, but the great plains of rush hour Buenos Aires were briefly filled with the tuneful moans of irate motorists pounding horns, a sound that seemed as old as time.

Morel

A conversation I just had with a colleague has revealed something to me that I find a bit disturbing but recognize I am powerless to change. Social media and an online presence is all very well, and in fact entirely unavoidable in a world that depends on the internet, but who turns off the switch when you ‘leave the room’?

‘La invención de Morel’ (The Invention of Morel), written by Adolfo Bioy Casares in Buenos Aires in 1940, is a short novel that describes a man alone on a desert island who sees and falls in love with a mysterious woman who appears to him at certain times of the day but disappears and will not speak to him at others. I won’t spoil the book for anybody who wants to read it, and I recommend that everybody does, but suffice to say that in ‘La invención de Morel’, which Borgés himself qualified as ‘perfect’, Bioy Casares foresaw an aspect of the new age of post-reality that we currently inhabit, in which through the compilation of images and actions we create an online presence that we bring to life but will not die when we do.

Recent deaths of either people I know or people who acquaintances of mine known have seen their Facebook profiles turn into shrines, where ‘friends’ or connections can place endless tributes - some of which are truly touching, and some of which venture beyond the limits that physical reality places on us. Let me explain. A friend of yours dies; you leave an emotional message to that friend the same way you would leave any message on Facebook, communicating directly with that friend although that friend will never read it or be aware that it exists and will certainly never respond. If someone else is to come across the friend’s Facebook profile, the profile will be just as alive as it ever was when the friend was, because nobody dies on Facebook – your profile never disappears, or at least not up to now. Without ever knowing it, your presence will exist forever, and, although the interaction will be one-way, the people that inhabit the world you already left will be able to ‘communicate’ with you as if you never had. Over this, like death, you have no control.

Bioy Casares in ‘Morel’ wrote “I believe we will not gain immortality because we have yet to evolve our resistance to death.” Facebook, and the world of online presences and profiles, where children who have yet to be born (let alone aware of conscious thought) have profiles and people who are long departed will never fade away, is taking us as a society one illusory step towards such a resistance. It will remain illusory though – like everything online, your presence is only as real as you believe it is.

Frankfurt

Depressed, genuinely depressed, not because of the ordeal, the waiting, the frustration – no, depressed because I’ve just been reminded what Christmas is supposed to feel like, by tasting a sip of a Starbuck’s Toffee Nut Latte™ in Frankfurt airport. An American woman and two German ladies (all white) nearby are in frantic agreement over immigration and the nationalization of immigrants: “they sweep in and take our jobs” etc. Everywhere in this airport travelers are weeping, employees are shouting – and someone from Maintenance is doing laps on a bicycle while I sip Starbuck’s Christmas Cheer™. Is this the world you were dreaming of, Walt Disney? Look what we’ve become. I hope you’re turning in your grave/fridge.

The last few days, if nothing, have given me ample opportunity to witness something I have never seen before: the Germans in action, for better or worse. What is most surprising is their ability to communicate, their communication skills, which are truly woeful. No, that’s not fair: their communication abilities are entirely efficient. If they can’t help you, they won’t try. If you can’t ask the right question then you clearly don’t deserve the effort it takes into producing the right answer, or the answer itself. Not a word wasted. Efficient, and infuriating. In Buenos Aires, we queued for two hours to be told our flight would be delayed by six; in the end it was delayed by seven. Why, we were not told.

The flight was, surprisingly, incredibly painless. I hadn’t slept the night before and was out like a light. The plane was old enough not to have screens in the back of the seat in front of me, ridding me of a major distraction. The food offered looked exactly like economy class fare is supposed to look like but was actually very good. Everything about the trip itself reassured me that, on the continent, in civilization, all would be well. Lufthansa’s trans-atlantic crossing was the scene of my return to innocence and naivety as I left the New World and returned to the Old.

It was on the flight that I saw several further examples of German communication: often firm, always polite. When the food cart was being wheeled up the aisle in-flight, a woman tried to get past. The Valkyric attendant didn’t budge. The woman tried harder but Brunhilda stopped her with a staying hand and said, smiling brightly as one does to the deranged: “it weighs 90 kilos”… so good luck chum, she didn’t have to add.

When the plane crossed France I opened the window a crack and saw green below. Where was this snow that was causing so many people problems? And then I opened it fully and saw white. Everywhere was white. Endless fields, a la The Snowman, coated in white. And it was beautiful. From here one could appreciate the majesty of a world covered in a delicate spray of icing. This is Winter as seen in postcards, Narnia and Coca-Cola adverts. Two and a half decades of almost entirely snowless childhoods gave way to a squeal of delight that I kept deep inside but harkened to a part of me that had always dreamed and known that this is how the world should be.

All it took was our arrival in Frankfurt to remind me of how it actually is.

The 1st Officer started jabbering away on the speaker as we approached our descent, before stopping abruptly: “New information has been received!” he barked and promptly disappeared. The new information, it has to be said, was a surprise for all concerned: Frankfurt was closed. Like a shop or a bar. Except we were in a plane hovering above the airport, and couldn’t get in, which was the equivalent of being left out of a lock-in, only several hundred feet off the ground. I had already missed my connecting flight to Kuwait so I had absolutely no idea what would happen next when we arrived on the ground – it could only be a new adventure. We circled Frankfurt for a while, and I chatted nervously with the Swedish ball bearing salesman to my right, desperately trying not to look out of the window to my left – because there was nothing to see. Clouds swirled around and below us, small lights twinkling somewhere on the ground, impossible to tell at what distance. I have never been in a snowy landing before, and had no idea what to expect, but luckily my over-active imagination was providing me with some suitably disturbing thoughts.

After a while the plane descended. The window became covered in tiny icicle snowflakes, beautiful in their intricacy yet unnerving in their promise. Clutching my chair and by now talking utter gibberish to avoid the “OH MY GOD!!” thoughts running merry havoc in my brain, which I get every time a plane lands but were multiplied tenfold by the current situation, I occasionally glanced out. We had by now broken the snow clouds. The trees, unmistakably German snow-covered pines, grew closer and closer, the tires grunted below us, the buildings became bigger … and then we landed. And the landing was perfect, perhaps the best I’ve ever experienced. Smooth. No twisting and sliding at all. Spontaneous applause burst out around the cabin. Why? I thought. What has the pilot done? The plane is designed to land; he is employed to land it. Just because he does it every day normally with the minimum amount of fuss, why should he be applauded when he does it when it’s difficult? I realized that I was tired, angry, unsure of what was going to happen next, and that the plane was full of Argentines, who sometimes clap when they don’t know what else to do, and always applaud landings.

A semi-elderly Russian gent got up straight away; a torch beam shot out from the Valkyrie to my right: “Sir! You must please sit down!” came the command across the cabin. The man continued, oblivious, and another beam shot out like a bullet. Caught in the headlights, the Russian gave in and meekly sat down like a chastened schoolboy.

When we eventually got onto the ground, everything was chaos. Nobody had the first idea of what was going on. This was the end of Day Two of a continent-wide natural disaster, not volcanic ash but snow, possibly the most pathetic and debilitating natural disaster since the former, and nobody in ‘busy international hub’ Frankfurt had a clue about what was happening. We wandered hallways, sometimes in packs, sometimes alone, occasionally snatching at pieces of information that we thought, we believed, assumed was useful, because it came from someone in a uniform, but nobody was useful, nobody had the answer we were looking for and the uniforms were empty, devoid of authority.

Where can I get my bag from? I asked. “Yes, you must get your bag,” nodded the woman of African descent in a Lufthansa uniform. From where? “I do not know,” she shook her head, mournfully. An Israeli man had found an attendant that spoke his language – were they fighting or agreeing? Easily could’ve been either.

And nobody cared.

I’ve just crossed the Atlantic and I don’t speak German. “Um…would you like a medal?” No, I’d like a flight, my bag and a shower, in the order. “You can share a shower; you’ll never see your bag again; I can’t help you with your flight.” What level of Hell have we been flown into?

I started to follow an American tour guide, partly because there was a chance he’d know or be able to find something out and partly because I needed a Mother Goose. He was utterly useless, but he was wearing a pretty red jacked so at a pinch he could pass for Santa Clause; my brain was really very tired.

After some false starts down cavernous and deserted hallways, we found a queue. A queue! That most international of symbols! If people are queuing, there must be a reason – there must be something at the end. A pot of gold; a flight; a Kit-Kat. Whatever. So I joined the back with Mother Goose/Santa Clause. However, a well-coiffeured and impeccably dressed little German whose eyes darted and mouth rattled as if he’d just taken a line of speed was decimating the queue from the back with a clipboard.

“You!” he barked at three tall blond lads. “Going to Norway? Go to Gate 67B this instant. Your flight will be taking off shortly.” The three Scandinavians hadn’t really registered what had hit them but off they scurried.

“You!”

“Yes?” I offered meekly.

“Where you going?”

“Kuwait.”

“Ha. No, you’re not.” I blinked at this response, unsure as to how to react. Is this German customer service?

Mother Clause started to remonstrate with this communications guru in what seemed to be a jokey way for our benefit (not in front of the kids, darling) but was layered with vicious meaning:

Mother Clause: Ha ha, wouldn’t it be nice if you told us what was going on.

Communications Guru: Ha ha, wouldn’t it be nice if you got off my back, rolled into a cave and died, ha ha.

MC: Ha ha, leak me some information, think of yourself as Julian Assange for Frankfurt airpot, ha ha.

CG: Ha ha, look where Julian Assange is now, accused of rape and locked up on the behest of the Americans, he’s lucky he’s not in Guantanamo, ha ha.

MC: Ha ha, go **** your ******, ha ha.

CG: Ha ha, I would do but I was busy finishing up with your…
And so on.

But I looked at Mother Clause in light of this new information. He had no idea what was getting on and was getting in the way. This coiffeured coked-up Kraut (with a peculiarly South African English) had all the information I needed and was prepared to give it to me. I ditched the red-jacketed buffoon and started firing questions at Lufthansa’s finest.

1. What happened to my flight? “Cancelled.”

2. Where’s my bag? “You won’t see it for five days.”

3. Why not? “Because it’s being held where we wash our luggage carrying buses. Along with thousands of others. You think you’re in the shit, take a look around. You’re just a number, a statistic in a news story.”

4. So what do I do? “Take this voucher, get in a taxi, they’ll take you to this hotel. On the house. When you get there, call this hotline. They’ll re-book your flight. Good luck.”

He may have been an odious little prick, but I entirely appreciated his honesty: efficient, no-frills, take-it-or-leave-it communication. I took it, suddenly less angry, bewildered or confused than I had been when I got off the plane, and jumped into a cab.

The cold outside the plan was unreal. I had no clothes apart from what I was wearing, what I had been wearing since Friday night (amid those distant steaks and wine on a hot summer evening with friends in Latin America – had it only been two days?) and only had a coat. The snow was falling thick and fast, and was not attractive as it had been from the plane, but dirty and corrupted. I got into the taxi and zoomed into the night.

The driver was jovial and slightly chatty. I thought the hotel would be in Frankfurt itself but it was actually about 70km away, in a small town called Bingen. The snow was thick on and off the road, and several times the driver lost some control over the car and you could feel the tires sliding. Luckily this was happening to everyone so everybody on the road was aware and attentive to each other; considerate Germans.

The hotel was located at the far end of a pier in Bingen, a small industrial riverside town. The only guests in the hotel were stranded passengers, courtesy of Lufthansa. On the final approach to the hotel my taxi got stuck. Another taxi driver stopped and got out to push; after a while I got out as well to help, my Converse gently absorbing the snow caused by two days of solid snowfall. All to no avail. My driver got out and found a rubber sheet which he placed under a wheel to give it grip; the first time he started the car after this the sheet spun out from under the car and struck the assisting taxi driver on the shins. He hobbled off into the night, cursing. Someone came dashing out of the hotel with a shovel and got to work on the front wheels; at the same time, my driver got out and started spanking the back of the car with the rubber sheet to get the snow off. The sight was ridiculous beyond belief, like some sort of taxi-related bedroom game. Eventually, the taxi was freed and rolled off into the night.

The hotline to Lufthansa was engaged all evening. My hotel room looked disconcertingly like [the artist’s impression of] a cheap whore’s boudoir, right down to the plastic sheets. The ‘meal’ provided by the hotel and paid for by Lufthansa was disgusting and insufficient. I met some former US military lads (now civilian ‘contractors’ – euphemism for ‘hired killers’? One never knows…) on their way to Iraq or ‘Afghan’ via Kuwait, we started on the beers and Johnnie Walker, and that pretty much saw off the rest of the evening.

The next day I rose to a breakfast that was just like a boarding school Sunday breakfast – lavish, fantastic, excessive. I ate too much, but in my mind I justified it easily – after a night of watching BBC and CNN reports in which I had, as the Lufthansa man had predicted, become a number in a news story, when would I next be eating a meal like this again?

On the trip back to the airport, Germany was stunning. The countryside was lent an air of beauty by the snow that almost served to wash away my irritation at having been stuck and with little idea of how I would get out. But I was tired, and wanted to leave. This was my holiday. Frankfurt was just as crowded as it had been the day before, the people just as useless. But at least it wasn’t snowing anymore. I waited to get a new ticket, and suddenly everything was fine – flying out in the afternoon, with my bag. Success, at last.

Which was when I headed to Starbucks, took a long drag, and realized: this is Christmas, for everyone. The reason why this snow has caused so much chaos is that, at this time of year, people care in a way they simply don’t at other times. At this one point, on a hard day at the end of a hard year, we are all just trying to get home. I can’t believe it took me a sip of Starbucks to make me realize how important that is. What’s next? A sip of Coca-Cola and I’ll suddenly believe in Santa Clause again?

PS: It seems I was wrong – it isn’t just Maintenance that cycle about in Frankfurt airport, it’s everybody. Gotta love the Germans.

Nestor

Wednesday was a peculiar day. It was the day the National Census was carried out, so we all had the day off, provided we stayed at home all day waiting for the 'censista' to turn up. In order to ensure that everyone was in the right mental shape for the exertions, all bars and restaurants were shut at midnight on Tuesday. However, one or two bars worked out a cunning way of getting around this problem by holding private parties - it was illegal for a bar to be open, but there's no problem if it's a private party in somebody's 'house'. So that's where I was until 5 or 6 am on Wednesday. It felt like a Friday night, although it was a Tuesday.

I had set the next day aside for cooking and cleaning, but naturally woke up in the afternoon. What actually woke me was a call from a colleague informing me that Nestor had died. It is hard to accurately describe the thoughts that rushed colliding into my head at that precise moment. It felt like the suspension of reality, mixed with the coincidence that everybody in the city was at home to grieve in silence. My censista turned up shortly afterward to take my details. A sample of the questions: "Do you own a fridge? A laptop? A cellphone? A landline? Can you read and write?", in that order. The Census was also declared to be 'obligatory' but 'anonymous'; how any process can actually be both is beyond me.

After responding these questions, I went to the park to meet my friend Trevor, his girlfriend and their dog. I have never seen a space so devoid of mourners. Not one in sight. Nobody was wearing black; a lot of people were wearing barely anything at all. Music, sun, alcohol, dancing... Reality was clearly still suspended. And then I returned home, switched on the tv: the Casa Rosada, silent, deserted, and the only people walking in the Plaza de Mayo are Brazilian and/or Japanese tourists who haven't read or understood the news or participated in the Census and are bemused by the lack of people in the central square in a busy capital city. This changed, of course, over time, as people returned to the streets. But nothing was open until 8 pm, so that was when the mourning began in earnest.

The President declared three days of mourning; what that means is apparently not a national holiday until Monday, as we believed at first, but flags at half-mast and a lot of wearing black. Latin American heads of state have been rolling in over the last 24 hours. The talk in the streets and in the office is about what she will do next, whether she is strong enough politically or emotionally to run again in the elections next year, or whether it's time to step down and let somebody else take control. The next few weeks will be crucial in terms of defining her decision. Vultures/sharks are circling, depending on where one is standing. Regardless of personal opinions about the man himself, it is clear that, in the last decade, he has changed Argentina forever, and it is possible that in dying he has done exactly the same thing again. We shall see.

Palermo last night was full of life. I met up with a friend in a bar to watch part of the World Series, a sport I do not understand. In the packed bar, there was not one Argentine in sight. I wonder how many of them in there knew what was going on in the outside world. For them at least, reality was and is still suspended.