22 May 2015
Postcard from Argentina
November 2014
Within walking distance, the architecture can change to anything from glass skyscrapers to renovated warehouses, from super-wide boulevards to elegant streets with world-class hotels as well as run-down streets with cheap shops and areas where it’s not a good idea to step outside. There’s a port with attractive yachts and a front that’s reminiscent of Boston, but a couple of blocks back, it’s quite different and poorer. Jochen and I do a guided tour, including the Boca – an area with colourful clapperboard shops and street stalls, where you can be photographed with a tango dancer or with a plastic model of Messi; the Pink House (a more colourful version of the White House?), with tight security outside to prevent protests getting too close. The Malvinas veterans have been camped outside for more than 7 years, lobbying for better pensions (the guide tells us few of the veterans actually went to the islands). We learn that the Italians and Spanish may have brought the immigrants, but the Germans brought the industry and the British the railways (which are in such disrepair, they only run into the suburbs rather than between cities and over the Andes). There are a number of monuments given by countries to mark Argentina’s 100 years of independence, including a mini-Big Ben. There’s a monument to the revolution in 1810 and the subsequent independence from the Spanish. We finish with a tour of the cemetery, where wealthy families’ tombs are individual works of art, each vying with the other to be the most impactful.
I start the long route home: four hours back to Buenos Aires, another steak dinner and overnight in another hotel, 12 hours flight to Madrid and another couple to London. It’s been a great trip, but did it warrant all that child-like anticipation? Very much so, but I am looking forward to eating something different, such as chicken.
I’ve not been able to hide my excitement about my business
trip to Argentina. After all at my age, with a long list of countries under my
belt, I should perhaps be more blasé. But I’m as excited as an eight year old.
This is, after all, my first trip to South America (was it George Bush who
said, “if I’d known I would go to Latin America, I would have learned Latin”?)
and Argentina, with its recent sovereign bond default, is barely out of the
news these days.
And of course, there’s the thorny issue of the Falklands.
MercoPress is a daily news service about South America and
the South Atlantic. Hardly a day goes by without some news of Argentina
hassling the Falklands. A recent article,
for example, tells how Argentina has seemingly lost the Squid War this year,
where Argentina deliberately overfishes squid to lower the catch around the
islands. In fact, this year their squid catch around the islands was a record,
hence the news article. There’s no doubt the bark is worse than the bite but
the Argentina’s harassment of the islands is pretty much incessant.
Argentinians are delightful people. Everyone smiles, is
friendly and keen to chat. They “love the accent” and laugh politely when I
tell them that it is they, rather than me, with an accent. If they haven’t been
to London, it’s their dream to go. They talk about football, of course,
especially now national pride post-World Cup has been restored by recently
beating Germany 4:2 in a friendly. The people are a mix of predominately
Italian and Spanish immigrants, so they say “Ciao” rather than “Adiós”, there
are pizzerias everywhere and the sea of faces is much more homogenous than in
Brazil, for example. There were no slaves, very few local natives remain and
there’s been almost no immigration from anywhere other than Europe. So the sea
of faces is a universal, slightly swarthy white.
This doesn’t feel like a country in default. There are a few
buildings for sale and some boarded-up shops and the odd-homeless person, but
probably no more than in Paris or London. We’re given a restaurant
recommendation, but can only get in for the super-early time of 20:30, as it’s
full once the locals come out to eat at 22:00 or later (no, I’ve not worked out
when Argentinians sleep). Inflation’s about 40% against official estimates of
about 10%, but the locals just shrug and get on with life. Menus have stickers
over the prices, sometimes several on top of each other. Salaries are put up
two or three times a year, according to a formula that is not official but
everyone complies with. There are two dollar/Peso exchange rates: the official
one at about 8 Pesos to the dollar and the ‘blue’ rate at about 14 to one. But
oddly the government sets and announces the blue rate every day. There are
licensed money changers in small shops that offer the blue rate. That
translates to a good dinner for five being about $200 if paid by credit card,
but little more than an astonishing $100 if paid in cash. The Argentinian way
is to shrug, smile and prefer to enjoy a glass of wine, a steak and a laugh
with friends than to worry about economics or politics.
Ah yes, the steak. Argentina is a big country – with the
equivalent surface area of rather more than 11 United Kingdoms – and much of it
is Pampas, where cattle graze, mostly reared for beef. Argentinians eat a lot
of it and are rightly proud of their beef, which is delicious especially when
combined with a glass or two of local Malbec. I have never before eaten as much
steak over such a short period, as it’s served every dinner and some lunches,
mostly rather larger than a pièce de boeuf from Courte Paille.
They nod and smile in a very Argentinian way whatever you order: rare, medium
rare, medium, medium well or well done. They then just bring it to you medium
rare, or a punto. As far as they are concerned, there is no other way to
enjoy the best beef on the planet and they don’t intend to pander to the tastes
of misguided tourists.
Buenos Aires is an interesting mix. I stay in a simple
‘boutique’ hotel in a residential part of town, with cobbled streets, cafés
with outside tables and sunshades, small boutiques and restaurants. The
architecture is a mix of colonial stone and modern, sometimes smart and mostly
run-down, not in a way that parts of Italy can be, for example, but with
crumbling facades and graffiti. The pavements are beautifully tiled, but in
disrepair. It has a little the feel of a scruffy version of Pimlico in London,
Georgetown in Washington or Cambridge in Massachusetts. It’s rather nice in a
weird way.
Within walking distance, the architecture can change to anything from glass skyscrapers to renovated warehouses, from super-wide boulevards to elegant streets with world-class hotels as well as run-down streets with cheap shops and areas where it’s not a good idea to step outside. There’s a port with attractive yachts and a front that’s reminiscent of Boston, but a couple of blocks back, it’s quite different and poorer. Jochen and I do a guided tour, including the Boca – an area with colourful clapperboard shops and street stalls, where you can be photographed with a tango dancer or with a plastic model of Messi; the Pink House (a more colourful version of the White House?), with tight security outside to prevent protests getting too close. The Malvinas veterans have been camped outside for more than 7 years, lobbying for better pensions (the guide tells us few of the veterans actually went to the islands). We learn that the Italians and Spanish may have brought the immigrants, but the Germans brought the industry and the British the railways (which are in such disrepair, they only run into the suburbs rather than between cities and over the Andes). There are a number of monuments given by countries to mark Argentina’s 100 years of independence, including a mini-Big Ben. There’s a monument to the revolution in 1810 and the subsequent independence from the Spanish. We finish with a tour of the cemetery, where wealthy families’ tombs are individual works of art, each vying with the other to be the most impactful.
100 years ago, people thought Argentina could be a
Spanish-speaking United States, rich from land, natural resources and the
efforts of energetic, well-educated immigrants. That was, well, 100 years ago
and today the reality is different. Near the Pink House, there’s a poster with
a picture of the President and one of Uncle Sam, with the head of a holdout
Hedge Fund Photoshop’ed onto the head of Uncle Sam. The caption reads, “Are you
with Christina, or with the USA?” Our guide smiles (remember, that’s the
Argentinian way) and just says, “Barbie”. “Barbie?” I question, looking at the
picture of the middle aged, over-made up Christina. “Barbie’s grandmother” she
replies, with another smile. Not a single Argentinian I meet thinks the country
will elect a better government at the Presidential elections next year.
Comparisons are made with Hugo Chávez, who remained popular as he bankrupted
Venezuela. “Couldn’t you vote in a good government?” I ask. “Argentina swings
between democracy and dictatorship, so this is as good as it gets,” is the
reply. Voting in bad politicians is of course not limited to South America. I
remember reading about Earl Long, Louisiana's notorious ex-governor, who’s best
remembered for dating a stripper and winning an election while confined to an
asylum. His quote, “Someday Louisiana is gonna get good government. And they
ain't gonna like it” could well apply to Argentina.
The next day we head to Rosario, a town of about a million
inhabitants, three or four hours’ drive northwest. The drive goes through
pampas after pampas. The city itself is quite wealthy, being where agricultural
products – wheat, beef, soya – are loaded onto large freighters for export via
the broad and deep Paraná river. We’re told it’s best known for being where the
Argentine flag was designed and where the Cuban revolutionary Che Guevara was
born. The country is so big and with only Pampas nearby, Rosarians come over as
a tight-knit community who enjoy each other’s company, boating on the river and
walking along the recently renovated board walk, but not venturing much further
afield.
One of the purposes of the trip is to take part in the
inauguration of a new office. There’s quite a delegation of local politicians:
the mayor cuts the ribbon, watched over by several aides. The press are there
in force and flashbulbs pop. The state Governor sends his apologies, the
message being delivered by his deputy (also accompanied by several aides).
Perhaps there’s just a thirst for some bit of good news. The State is promoting
a business park and asks us to please relocate the company there when it opens
in May. I tell him that I’m sure the local management will consider whatever is
best for the company. The next day, there is a large piece in the newspaper,
complete with a comment from a company spokesman that the company is moving to
the Business Park. <Sigh>. Also, the next day the phones are humming and
the emails inbox filling up with candidates asking about vacancies.
I start the long route home: four hours back to Buenos Aires, another steak dinner and overnight in another hotel, 12 hours flight to Madrid and another couple to London. It’s been a great trip, but did it warrant all that child-like anticipation? Very much so, but I am looking forward to eating something different, such as chicken.
# posted by DavidF @ 17:39 
