Patagonia: Junin de los Andes (Feb. 22-25, 2006)

I almost forgot about the whole Patagonia thing.

My first stop was at a small town in Neuquén province called Junin de los Andes, sister town of the more popular - but more expensive and touristy - town to the south, San Martin de los Andes. JdlA is more in what's called the Lake District as opposed to Patagonia, and as it turns out, the area is quite charming and scenic, as the name would suggest. I woke up a little too late on my first morning to get to the hiking, as the buses departed for Parque Nacional Lanín at 10:00am, and I was far too tired to make that particular deadline. Instead I had quite a nice day wandering around the town, taking in the scenery and a long lunch, and appreciating the very odd but very compelling monkey puzzle trees.

It was easy to forget, at that point, that I my arrival in JdlA had been in a perpetual state of jeopardy. I don't remember the Argentine bus system as confusing and inefficient - habitually tardy and inveterate loiterers, even in the most avoidable of places - but perhaps that's because it was Scott's job to be concerned with such things when last I visited. The delay that was out of the bus company's control, to be fair, was a storm that descended on Buenos Aires right at 8:00pm as we were leaving. I wasn't in a mood to make excuses for these people, however, as they had managed to roll into Retiro (the bus station) only two minutes before departure time, and in the wrong spot. Running along the line of 70+ buses, dodging people, looking at the useless departures board, trying not to panic; that I actually do remember from my last visit.

So the roads out of Buenos Aires were frequently covered in water, the surface of which sometimes reached a car's rim, and sometimes its bumper. The going was slow. I wondered, as we finally arrived at Neuquén at 3:15pm the next day, more than 2.5 hours late, if 12:30pm was a realistic arrival time even in the absence of the storm. We stuck around at the most apparently insignificant bus stations for at least 15 minutes, waiting for no one to get on or off, and of course every time the bus pulled into one of the carbon-copy bus satations I had to ask "Estamos en Neuquén?" We weren't.

But I had stopped worrying about all this entirely by the time I was sat down at a cafe along the Plaza San Martin, chatting with a field biologist from Banff who had come down south for a break before returning to study a salamander with a distinctive yellow stripe down its back, the name of which eludes me. One frequently meets people down here whose conversation is, if nothing else, unpredictable. I suppose we thought something might be up when a large paper maché lizard ambled down the street, carried by about eight kids, just as the sun was setting; we knew for sure that this was not an ordinary night when a group of forty-odd kids gathered in the middle of the Plaza San Martin to rehearse an impressive display of drumming and dancing. I was pretty far away from the action for South America, but even still, it was February 24, the beginning of Carnivale.

For a town that could not have had more than 5,000 inhabitants, Junin de los Andes deserves quite a bit of credit for the show they put on that night. The parade consisted of three separate groups of drummers, maybe ten of them, with dancers, maybe twenty, who all performed a few basic sways, spins, and kicks, all to the same fairly elaborate drum beats. All of the dancers and most of the drummers were kids, mostly under the age of twelve. In between these groups were rather odd floats: a bulldozer, an F1 racing car, the lizard from before that took repeated runs at the kids on the sidewalk, just stopping short (though eliciting a few surprised screams), and a cigarette with the word "Neuquén" printed around the filter. I'm still a little puzzled by that last one. Quite a spectacle.

The most surprising thing about the parade was its length. Not that the parade route itself was long, as it covered most of the town's main drag, about four blocks. After the groups reached the end though, they did a little cheer, and then went right back to the start, and did it again. The going was slow, so each trip took at least forty-five minutes. I went to bed when they were on the third lap. Between the parade and their extended warm-up beforehand, those kids must have been dancing for hours. Props.

I missed the bus again the next day - not because I woke up late, but because it was all booked up - so I had decided that I had spent just enough time in Junin de los Andes. It was a lovely time, and I enjoyed myself, but I had hiking to do, and the town had served its purpose of breaking up the trip nicely. Next up: El Bolsón, a town that I had, on impulse, decided to visit in favour of the more popular Bariloche. Just a few days there, I told myself, and then onto Patagonia proper. Just goes to show the futility of planning.

Getting lined up for the parade.

Rolling down the main drag.

More dancers.

Just before leaving Junin. Pretty.

Nunca más

Today is March 26, 2006; 30 years and two days after a coup d’état forced Isabel Perón from office, commencing seven years of military dictatorship and a program of state terrorism that would come to be known as la Guerra Sucia (“the Dirty War”). Of course, the remembrance of a terrible past, the marches, the closed shops, the eerie calm about the city lasted only for one day; yesterday was a typically well-attended Saturday, with the exception of those who had chosen to spend their long weekend at one of the numerous Atlantic coast beach resorts. Were it only two days since the coup, and not 30 years and two days, I suspect that the coup would seem less like a one-day event than a discernable, but irrelevant starting point. Such is the weakness of anniversaries: those who survived lived every day of the Dirty War’s seven years, not just the first and last, the latter of which will likely also be commemorated. “Was that really seven years ago?” might be the future’s typical response. Time flies when your children haven’t been disappeared.

Before going too much further, I’ll throw in one of many photos that I took at the march on Friday:


The large puppet is an effigy of General Rafael Videla, leader of the coup and one of three dictators to run the country during the subsequent seven years. It’s not a great photo, and I’ll attach a better one later, but I wanted to draw attention to the woman holding up Videla’s right arm; the one with the Uncle Sam hat. Extra credit if you can piece together the symbolism. A timely release of documents by the National Security Archive on Thursday details Henry Kissinger’s immediate support for the military regime, and cooperation between the Southern Cone’s secret police forces operating under Operation Condor. The day after Kissinger’s staff meeting, though well after the U.S. was aware of the planned coup, the IMF released a $127 million credit for the military junta. Argentine citizens have rarely found themselves on the right end of an IMF loan, but that’s another matter.

Another photo, this one taken at the Congreso, the plaza out front of the Argentine Congress building. The march began at the Congreso and proceeded to the Plaza de Mayo in front of the Casa Rosada, about a kilometre away.


A few examples of the many banners that political groups had created for the event, and these were a representative sample. We’ve got the Socialists on the left; ‘Che’ Guevara – by far the best represented guy there – next on the right; followed by one I can’t make out, though the colour, star, and Che symbol suggest that this is not the extreme right wing; two to the right are the Communists, with a nicely drawn hammer and sickle, and of course the ubiquitous Che. In case anyone doesn’t know much about Che – for instance, if you’ve ever worn a t-shirt with his face on it – Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara was born in Rosario, now Argentina’s third-largest city, north-west of Buenos Aires. While he did his revolutionary work in Cuba, the Congo, and finally Bolivia, he still had an indirect influence at home, providing an inspiration for leftist guerillas who opposed the military governments of the late 60’s and early 70’s, and even the Perón administrations of 1973-1976. So he’s not just a benign symbol of vague leftist ideologies here: he represents the actual struggles of the extreme left to incite revolution.

While you don’t have to idolize Lenin and Mao to show your distaste for seven years of state repression and terrorism, there is a definite political stripe here that runs down through extreme resistance to the military junta; through socialism and even communism; through opposition to the United States’s occupation of Iraq; through China, Russia, and Cuba; through Che and leftist guerillas. The alliance between these political imperatives was laid bare on Friday: they shared space on banners, in stencils spray-painted on the walls of buildings between the Congreso and Plaza de Mayo, and on the leaflets that activists handed out at every corner. One may support one of these movements and have contempt for another, but regardless, the way between them is well traveled.

This is what surprised me about Friday’s demonstration. I had come expecting a sombre mood, images of the dead, and moments of silence. What I saw instead was a political demonstration. While the junta’s crimes were certainly the day’s cynosure; in each group, in every speech, the actions of the past were examined with an eye to present and future political action. Not everyone feels this way of course – Kirchner’s narrative was something along the lines of “past bad, present good”, and the more incendiary speeches conflicted with the message that traditional groups, such as the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, were trying to get across – but most of the people at the Plaza de Mayo on Friday wanted more than just awareness: they wanted change. Media outlets reported that at least 30,000 people likely came out, and the event was almost entirely peaceful, though one riot broke out near the Plaza San Martin. Two days on, thirty years on, and the wounds are still fresh.

Approaching along Callao.

The kids love Che.

Socialists are in the house; Congreso in the background.

A better view of Señor Videla. Videla is currently under house arrest, awaiting trial.

Just a huge number of people along the Avenida de Mayo.

The Joventud Peronista were one of many young, leftist groups in attendance, but they're distinguished by their history. During Juan Domingo Perón's exile, the JP evolved into a resistance movement; their more militant wing - the Montoneros - embarked on a campaign of robberies and political kidnappings in the late 60's and early 70's. When Perón returned in 1973, his coalition had become so fractured by divergent interests that his arrival literally triggered a battle. On June 20, 1973, as hundreds of thousands awaited his plane at Ezeiza airport, a scuffle between the Montoneros and armed union guards (unions being Perón's traditional power base) evolved into a firefight that left hundreds killed or injured. In the following year before his death, Perón would begin to crack down on his party's extreme left wing, pushing them onto their own branch of revolutionary, Che-inspired politics.

Plaza de Mayo. Just one cross-section of the massive crowd.

The Casa Rosada, behind a large, temporary barrier, guarded. And I was hoping to see a President evacuated by helicopter. Maybe next demonstration.

Fútbol! - and other Argentine happenings

When I first arrived in Buenos Aires, on February 7, I got the sense that I was in very large, but spacious and not especially bustling city. Turns out everyone was on vacation. These days, the cafes are packed, the traffic is ludicrous at all hours, but, more importantly, it's all happening. Argentines are taking to March and a return to normal life with far more enthusiasm than I was ever able to muster for September.

Fútbol

Most notable, by far, is that this town is on the brink of going fútbol mad, though they were pretty mad about the stuff to begin with. The Primera División de Argentina will showcase its greatest rivalry on Sunday: the Superclásico, a match between arch-rivals Boca Juniors and River Plate. Still three days away, the news programs have been showing archive footage of previous matches, discussion of the match fills the front page of every newspaper's sports section, and any local with whom I've discussed the subject of football has expressed a preference. Boca, unsurprisingly, seems to be the people's choice.

Though Boca has had the upper hand in the rivalry of late, I'm pretty confident that my boys River are going to pull this one off. River has been playing very well of late, with convincing victories in both the Primera División de Argentina and the Copa Libertadores (more on that later). The Primera División de Argentina is split into two tournaments, which to us look just like leagues, with the winner being the team with the best record at the end. The first tournament is the Apertura, and the second the Clausura. Boca rolled to victory over second-place Gimnasia la Plata in the Apertura, but have stalled in the Clausura, sharing second place after a disappointing tie last week with one of the league's weakest teams. As Boca hesitates, River are striving forward, and sit atop the league with nine games remaining, but the most important by far taking place this Sunday. But while River may seem to be the favourite on paper, as the saying goes, the game is taking place in La Bombonera, an advantage that occludes analysis.

While the Primera División de Argentina offers more than enough football to keep this town engaged, we're also fortunate enough to be right in the middle of the Copa Libertadores - South America's answer to the Champions League. Currently, 32 teams are playing to determine the top two teams in each of eight divisions, with those winners moving onto an elimination tournament. Teams from every South American country (and Mexico) are eligible, and the international rivalries are as impassioned as the inter-club rivalries. Argentina tends to work itself up a little more than usual when one of their squads meets one from Brazil or Uruguay. Argentina's top clubs, naturally, are represented, with the surprising exception of the Boca Juniors, who fell to Guadalajara (Mex.) in the qualifying round. Their deciding game was abandoned in the second half when - their team's defeat inevitable - Boca fans hurled missiles onto the field, rushed Guadalajara's goalkeepeer, and incited violence generally. The players had done their fair share of brawling at that point as well.

30 años

On a more demure note, tomorrow is a national holiday here, but not of the happier variety. On March 24, 1976, Argentina's President, Isabel Perón, was ousted in a military coup d'état. What followed in the seven years of dictatorial military rule has been called the "Dirty War": a program of state terrorism in which civilians suspected of opposing the junta or having left-wing political views were tortured, murdered, and "disappeared". In 1976, a General in the junta predicted that "We are going to have to kill 50,000 people: 25,000 subversives, 20,000 sympathizers, and we will make 5,000 mistakes." A civilian government commission convened after the military's fall estimated the number of the killed or disappeared at 11,000, though some groups, such as the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, claim that the number is as high as 30,000.

So while tomorrow's holiday - the first ever on this day for this event - ostensively exists to allow Argentines to remember the past and honour the memory of the dead, many have pointed out a contradiction: on one hand, memories of a terrible day and a terrible time for Argentina; on the other, long weekend! While some are packing for the beach, many will gather in a series of demonstrations, one of which I will be joining tomorrow in the Plaza de Mayo outside the Casa Rosada. I suspect that it will be fascinating and quite moving. There are many other events surrounding the holiday, including art exhibits, films, speeches, and music. I hope to take in a least a few of these, particularly a performance of Messiaen's Quatuor pour la fin du temps. It will match the tone of the event well, I think.

Politics

The big political news here has been the re-nationalization of Aguas Argentinas, Argentina's water supplier, which had been run by a French firm called Suez. The rhetoric has been none too surprising: Argentina's president, Nestor Kirchner, claimed that Suez was reaping substantial profits while many Argentines suffered shortages, and Suez claimed that they in fact have incurred substantial losses, particularly since the government imposed a price freeze in 2002. A crisis in which some of the water supply was contaminated with nitrates certainly didn't bolster the relationship much. Many hope that the national service won't be just another inefficient state-run monopoly, but few would bet on it.

Michelle Bachelet, Chile's recently elected socialist President is in town, on her first visit abroad since taking office. A little like Stephen Harper going to Afghanistan, only more expected. Lastly, economic signs are good: the economy continued its impressive growth of 9.1% through January, and the number of the Argentine poor fell from 40.2% in the second half of 2004 to 33.8% in the same period of 2005. President Kirchner stressed that "while we are determined to see even further reductions in the number of the poor, 2/3 Argentines are now out of poverty, and that ain't bad." Sorry.

Autumn in Buenos Aires, it's good to live it . . .

So here I am: a month, albeit a short one, to the day after I last posted from Buenos Aires, I post again, only with a four-week trip to Patagonia under my belt. My apologies to all who may have checked here during that month of suckiness, but rest assured that I'll try to make up for it from here on in with some hopefully decent, though at least more frequent posts. I've decided that I'll add a post for each of the major stages of my trip over the next few weeks, intermingled with contemporary updates from BsAs, flashback style.

Today was a pretty busy day: I woke up in the morning with a bag to retrieve from the bus station - my beloved mochila grande, about which I had never forgotten despite all the time that mochila pequeña and I were spending together - which gave me the opportunity to complete my last hike: about 1.5km from the bus station to my hostel, just a little elevation, and with virtually everything I brought on my back. Pretty tame given what I'm accustomed to. With my full complement of toiletries at my disposal, I took a much-needed shower, and then sized up the scattered collection of wiry hairs that had settled on my face, masquerading as a beard.

It's pretty clear now that I'm just not a beard guy, or a facial hair guy of any kind. Not because I lack the face for it - I think that I could potentially pull it off - or because I lack the will, as I'm game. The hairs just don't grow. So, on March 21, I took the clippers to the longest facial hair that I had ever let my body sprout:


Whatever that is, 'tis no beard. Patchy and thin it is, but a beard it is not. Sigh. An hour, some clippers, and a dull razor later, I'm looking more familiar, just with a more common poof of hair. I get a haircut next door, and I'm myself again. The soul of Patagonia Dave escapes my body to go wander in the Andes near El Chaltén. Perhaps we'll meet up again some day.

Next up, an apartment, and a life. I have a few leads on rooms in a shared apartment, which I've decided is best for the cost and for the benefit of living with people, and Spanish-speaking people at that. I could get my own studio for not a considerable amount more, but I just don't see the value. So I'll be checking out places today and tomorrow, and then I'll begin to think about how I'll be occupying the next three months, which I've decided to spend mostly in BsAs, travelling around occasionally. I hope to score a volounteer job with an agency of interest to me - one in economics, ideally - but I'll take what I can get, which may even be normal work, perhaps translation. I'd rather do something important to me and forego the pay though, as my savings will keep me more than afloat down here. That search begins tomorrow. Until then, it's a perfect day here - a perfect autumn day in Buenos Aires - and I'm off for a coffee on a terrace somewhere. It's good to live it indeed.