I have a house to unpack, but instead I write. My husband and I moved into a larger apartment on the other side of the zoo that divides the area of Palermo, here in Buenos Aires. Our old apartment was not small, but something happened to us after having a second baby; the desire for more space became irresistible. And as it turned out, we had been "under housed" (living in less space than we were allowed) by State Department standards, so we appealed our housing assignment to the Embassy's housing board for more space, and our appeal was approved. The downside, of course, was that we had to pack up our stuff and move again, for the 10th time in less than as many years, this time right before a vacation. But we sucked it up, moved, went on vacation, and after a week back, I'm still looking at boxes. No better time to write.
Our moving drama pales in comparison to so much underway right now in Argentina. The country's politics have the population absolutely mesmerized. A few weeks ago, a large part of the country stayed up until 4am watching a count in the Senate to see if this body would approve the government's plan to increase export taxes on the country's farming sector, or as they are referred to locally, the "campo", and end the agricultural crisis (it did not). The Vice President cast the deciding vote against the President's wishes, at once cementing the end of his political future with this Administration, and setting himself up for a possible future Presidential bid.
In most countries in Latin America, "the campo" dredges up images of poor campesinos hoeing small plots of land involved in subsistence farming. There is some of that here to be sure, but close to a quarter of Argentina's "campo" includes large landholders (which also happen to be the most productive farmers), or the landed elite; descendants of people who immigrated early and obtained (by hook or crook) as much land as they could, which they successfully exploit. The current leadership of the country likes to refer to the campo as the oligarchy. Historically speaking, the term is not all that incorrect; at one point in this country's history, the members of the Rural Society of Argentina essentially hand-selected from its membership a series of Presidents until the country's opposition organized a coup. At the same time, because of the efforts of the ruggedly independent and anti-central government campo, Argentina is one of the world's largest agricultural producers, and the campo is the engine of economic growth, particularly during a time of high global commodity prices. The Peronist President, Cristina Kirchner, and her supporters want the campo to share their wealth through imposing unorthodox economic policies like export taxes, export bans and price controls. The campo, on the other hand, has other ideas (like making more money and controlling how it invests its earnings rather than handing them over to the government). So the farmer's strike, which began months ago and eventually lead to food shortages, price increases, public outcries ("caserolazos") and pictures in the media of trucks stopped on the sides of the roads with their payloads scattered, remains unresolved.
On July 15th, (coincidentally my 40th birthday) the strikers on both sides of the agricultural conflict staged massive demonstrations. Hundreds of thousands of people amassed both in my neighborhood (the campo) and downtown (the government supporters) to demonstrate about the conflict. Workplaces closed early, traffic was at a standstill, and public transportation systems were overrun with passengers. I walked through the campo demonstration and was struck by the positive, party-like atmosphere, similar to a block party in the U.S. Barbeques were set up on both sides of the street and "asadores" (local BBQ masters) were cooking sausages, hats and flags were on sale, different organizations had their banners up on display and vendors were hawking every good known to man to the crowd. Traditional music was roaring from the speakers, families came with their kids from the surrounding neighborhoods just for the social experience. Men and women dressed for the occasion, either as gauchos, or similar to Clint Eastwood's character in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, wearing indigenous inspired ponchos, wide -brimmed hats and riding boots. Walking home with my son from his pre school through the protest, he sat wide-eyed in his stroller, mesmerized by the crowd, marveling at the loud music, and asking if he could have one of the industrial sized balloons floating high above the crowd advertising agricultural products.
Regardless of where you come down on the agricultural crisis, everyone here is shocked at the pace of inflation. Prices for most food items in the family food basked have doubled over the last two years, while salaries have not risen accordingly. I don't know how most people get by. Even us spoiled diplomats are feeling the pinch. It cost us 75% more to paint our old apartment back to its original color than it did a year and 1/2 ago. Prices at our favorite restaurants have almost doubled just over the last year, as has our grocery bill. My son's pre-school tuition rose 40% since he began there in March of 2007.
In spite of rising prices, we still count ourselves among the very lucky. Even though my family provides raises to people who work for us in line with unofficial (and most would argue, more accurate) rates of inflation, I was recently humbled when I learned in detail just how the price increases have affected people I see and interact with daily (our housekeeper, nanny, doorman, seamstress). I interviewed them (among others) for a story I wrote on Argentina and commodity prices for a Canadian newspaper, and found that one's family no longer buys pastries as a treat for their kids on weekends, another's only buys a few pieces of fruit at a time, which are shared as dessert, and our doorman can no longer host his weekend asado with family and friends. I was immediately ashamed with the amount of food we purchased and threw away each week, so I started to pay more attention to what I buy, how much I pay for it, and I now go to great lengths not to waste food.
People who lived through the Great Depression probably read this and think about what wimps we are. We, and many Americans, have lived so well for so long. Maybe this is just my generation's time to cut back a bit and live more frugally.
Anyway, we are back in Argentina after three weeks of vacation in the U.S. I'm struck upon our return how less in love I am with Argentina than I was when I returned from a trip less than a year ago. At that point I think I almost liked Argentina more than the U.S., but not now. I think we had such a great time on vacation, that I almost forgot about how horrid it is to drive here (driving in Manhattan is a walk in the park in comparison). I got lazy and actually got used to cars stopping for me as I walked through a crosswalk in the U.S. (Silly rabbit! Cars don't stop for pedestrians in Buenos Aires!) I forgot that to get gas for our car, one has to go to the station the first thing in the morning, or expect an hour long wait in hydra-like lines at the gas station with no control over who goes next, and drivers shamelessly cutting the line as a matter of course. I forgot about the hoarding that is required if you absolutely want a certain product at the grocery store (you have to go there first thing in the morning too or suffer long waits). There is not a great deal of continuity in supermarkets here, and you may not see your favorite product again for months. I saw a woman with 25 boxes of Coffee Mate in line behind me at the store last week and the cashier and I snickered when she unloaded her cart. She insisted on explaining herself to us by saying, "You know how it is here! I don't drink milk and if I don't buy these now, I'll never see them again!"
Then there is the customer service. In the week since I've returned, I've been scammed out of money by a cab driver, attempted to be double-billed for services at our sports club, and scolded by an employee of my Internet provider for following the instructions of her colleague to switch services to our new apartment. I also found that all my painstaking work prior to my vacation canceling services (the water, Internet, the paper, etc.) at our old place was for naught, as vendor after vendor swears I never, ever, in fact, called to cancel. "There must have been some miscommunication, senora." Yes, of course! After all, I'm just a foreigner. If that weren’t enough of a “welcome home”, then our heating system broke, our fridge began to leak, our phone went dead, and the house alarm has begun to sound off each time I open the door. It may not look like it from the view from my new balcony, but I’m definitely back in the developing world.
When I complain to my husband (who, incidentally, conveniently never has to deal with these housing details) he gently reminds me how wonderful this place is compared to Ghana and how quickly I got used to the "good life" after just a few weeks in the U.S. He is right on both accounts of course, but I managed to round up a girlfriend who commiserated with me at the playground the other day. She also just returned from five weeks of vacation in Canada and admitted that she and her husband and two kids have had enough of Buenos Aires. In her words, "It’s just an unhealthy place, I’ve decided. My son was sick for six months straight here, hospitalized once. Over five weeks in Canada, he never even got a cold. I'm also tired of always assuming people are intending to rip me off. I got used to how things work in Canada, or at least how problems can be fixed. You know we haven't had a land line at my apartment for six months because of a fight we're having with our landlord and the phone company? We actually had to contract alawyer to help us. I'm sure we'll leave this place before it's resolved."
Oh well, I won't have the opportunity to obsess over the little problems in my life here for much longer. We have just one year left in this country, and where we go next is completely up in the air. My husband will begin the process of bidding on his upcoming assignment this fall, so my life is about to get very "interesting" (and to be sure, a heck of lot less convenient) soon enough. And the fact is, in spite of a rough landing from vacation, I’ll take inconvenient Argentina over most countries any day. So, I better get unpacked fast before we have to pack up again. And in the very short term, I think I'll put down my pen, order another "lagrima" (hot milk with a tear-sized shot of espresso), and enjoy the beautiful, warm, sunny spring day here at an outdoor café while my 7-month old daughter sleeps contently in her stroller at my side.
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