30/07/2010
It often happens when I tell people I lived in South America that they ask me about Brazil; the assumption being, anyone spending a substantial amount of time would obviously have gone. It’s part of that trendy BRIC acronym—not a developing economy—a developed economy, increasingly asserting its power on the world stage, whether it be playing hardball in trade negotiations with the U.S. over cotton subsidies, or a substantial humanitarian presence in Haiti.
At first I used to say that getting a visa was too much of a hassle. And while that was a copout—it was a disincentive for me, just as it was for my visiting Paraguay. The truth, though, with which I now exclusively reply, is that I don’t speak the language, and I’d like to be fairly competent before I go.
This is usually met with blank stares, the person with whom I’m talking having already exhausted every Spanish word they know. When I see their confusion, I remind them, “They speak Portuguese.”
Ah. The conversation usually ends shortly after that.
If Suriname were the topic, it wouldn’t even get that far.
“I’d like to go down south, but I need to work on my Dutch?”
It’s easy enough to forget about the three countries nestled in at the top of South America. For the most part, it’s pretty rare to find someone who’s actually been, and of those who have, many find the Darien Gap more accessible.
Despite its 593km border with Brazil, there’s no legal point of entry. So, short of a flight to Johan Adolf Pengel International Airport, there aren’t likely to be many tourists accidentally stumbling upon the country; any foreigner there most likely has a commerical purpose, and that purpose is increasingly golden.
To many Brazilians and Guyanese, Suriname has become a type of El Dorado. Years ago the population of the former was said to be somewhere in the vicinity of 20,000 (because of their informal work arrangements, it’s impossible to know)—not an insignificant number considering the Surinamese population is not even 500,000. And with the world’s decreasing faith in the American dollar and a de facto return to the gold standard (the mining community in the country actually uses it as a medium of exchange), the price of the commodity appears poised to rise—meaning more Brazilians will make their way through Guyana in search of work.
A massive influx of foreigners always brings out a certain amount of xenophobia—the example of Polish plumbers comes to mind—and Suriname hasn’t been any different. Peculiarly, though, this has mostly come from the Maroons—descendents of former slaves now protesting the presence of these freelance miners known as garimpeiros—this despite the fact that the Maroon leader Ronnie Brunswijk is believed to have once invited them.
Add to this mixture the quixotic and mercurial Surinamese President Desiré Delano Bouterse and the impossibly feral Surinam-Brazil border, and the prospects of an even more lawless no man’s land only increase.
Bouterse, or “Bouta” as he’s commonly called, can’t even leave the country because of a conviction for cocaine smuggling in the Netherlands; he’s also currently on trial for murder—though he’s confident he’ll have Presidential immunity; and concerning the border, as one veteran garimpeiro was quoted: “You have no documents, but nobody is asking for them either, so why bother.”
My concern is that all this volatility is a ticking time bomb. “Bouta” has already made promises to formalize these workers in an effort to placate his former enemies, but what happens if that’s unsuccessful? Brazilian technical knowledge and Maroon intermediary assistance is said to make the groups mutually dependent, but if last December’s clashes are any indication, that mutual dependence is tenuous at best.
Without additional international presence, Suriname’s isolation could easily make it ripe for unreported human rights abuses. The situation bears monitoring, and conventional journalism won’t be enough.
Between the sword and the wall
23/7/2010
Es tan corto el amor y tan largo el olvido.
Pablo Neruda
When Sebastian Piñera won Chile’s Presidential election this past November, the collective nervousness was palpable. And as if to highlight that apprehension, a devastating earthquake rattled the Chilean psyche in a way rarely seen since September 11, 1973.
Everyone was waiting for the slightest sign of regression or treachery, ready at any moment to label President Piñera a fascist. Because, in the same way German anxiety becomes insufferable at the briefest mention of a contemporary neo-Nazi group, Chile—for all its recent successes, is paralyzed by the mere mention of the name Pinochet.
If you go to the National History Museum in Santiago, you can still see the front pages of many of the international dailies from September 11, 1973. They’re eerie to read. Eerie because they force you, if only temporarily, to consider what might have been had Salvador Allende remained President.
Chile is a tangible Latin American success story. There’s no need to scour macroeconomic data to prove it. Travel around the country and the visceral feeling of optimism is overwhelming—and not in a rationalized or patronizing sense, but in the persistent impression you get they’re closer and closer to looking every single one of their fellow OECD members in the eye.
And yet that optimism is tempered by a dour guilt-complex that manifests in an inability to stop asking whether it was all worth it.
As any neo-liberal blowhard will tell you, Chile wouldn’t be where it is today if it weren’t for Milton Friedman and the Chicago boys. Furthermore, they say, it was liberalization that paved the way back to democracy. In other words, nothing is free. The reign of Pinochet should be thought of as revolutionary period during which unfortunate atrocities took place, but without which the country would still be mired in a socialist legacy of negative growth, non-existent foreign investment, and high unemployment.
For the relatives of the thousands who disappeared, that’s pretty callous and insensitive— regardless of whether or not it’s accurate. And for the first non-Concertación President since Pinochet, for the first right of centre President of the country since the General, the reckoning could only be delayed for so long.
This weekend the billionaire President, the Harvard Ph.D. recognized as the man who brought credit cards to the country, is between a rock and a hard place, or as the expression goes in Spanish—the sword and the wall. He’s facing a Church proposal to pardon members of the military involved in human rights abuses during the period.
On the face of it, the decision is simple. The Catholic Church and representatives from several evangelical Churches are claiming they want a nuanced, case-by-case evaluation—not to exonerate the guilty, but to forgive the innocent and heal the country.
The widespread opposition disagrees.
To even consider these proposals would be to renege on his earlier somewhat surprising criticism of Pinochet; an outright rejection would appear reactionary and contrived.
Forgiveness is a slow process. And though we like to imagine it’s organic and spontaneous, it’s often rooted in bold cataclysmic decisions and solutions like Truth and Reconciliation Commissions—solutions that more often than not reveal, despite how public sensationalism can make them—the intrinsically personal nature of the words, “I forgive you.”
I don’t envy President Piñera’s dilemma. For one person to forgive and move on can often seem like an insurmountable task. When that decision affects the lives of millions, the burden is more than I can imagine.
Es tan corto el amor y tan largo el olvido.
Pablo Neruda
When Sebastian Piñera won Chile’s Presidential election this past November, the collective nervousness was palpable. And as if to highlight that apprehension, a devastating earthquake rattled the Chilean psyche in a way rarely seen since September 11, 1973.
Everyone was waiting for the slightest sign of regression or treachery, ready at any moment to label President Piñera a fascist. Because, in the same way German anxiety becomes insufferable at the briefest mention of a contemporary neo-Nazi group, Chile—for all its recent successes, is paralyzed by the mere mention of the name Pinochet.
If you go to the National History Museum in Santiago, you can still see the front pages of many of the international dailies from September 11, 1973. They’re eerie to read. Eerie because they force you, if only temporarily, to consider what might have been had Salvador Allende remained President.
Chile is a tangible Latin American success story. There’s no need to scour macroeconomic data to prove it. Travel around the country and the visceral feeling of optimism is overwhelming—and not in a rationalized or patronizing sense, but in the persistent impression you get they’re closer and closer to looking every single one of their fellow OECD members in the eye.
And yet that optimism is tempered by a dour guilt-complex that manifests in an inability to stop asking whether it was all worth it.
As any neo-liberal blowhard will tell you, Chile wouldn’t be where it is today if it weren’t for Milton Friedman and the Chicago boys. Furthermore, they say, it was liberalization that paved the way back to democracy. In other words, nothing is free. The reign of Pinochet should be thought of as revolutionary period during which unfortunate atrocities took place, but without which the country would still be mired in a socialist legacy of negative growth, non-existent foreign investment, and high unemployment.
For the relatives of the thousands who disappeared, that’s pretty callous and insensitive— regardless of whether or not it’s accurate. And for the first non-Concertación President since Pinochet, for the first right of centre President of the country since the General, the reckoning could only be delayed for so long.
This weekend the billionaire President, the Harvard Ph.D. recognized as the man who brought credit cards to the country, is between a rock and a hard place, or as the expression goes in Spanish—the sword and the wall. He’s facing a Church proposal to pardon members of the military involved in human rights abuses during the period.
On the face of it, the decision is simple. The Catholic Church and representatives from several evangelical Churches are claiming they want a nuanced, case-by-case evaluation—not to exonerate the guilty, but to forgive the innocent and heal the country.
The widespread opposition disagrees.
To even consider these proposals would be to renege on his earlier somewhat surprising criticism of Pinochet; an outright rejection would appear reactionary and contrived.
Forgiveness is a slow process. And though we like to imagine it’s organic and spontaneous, it’s often rooted in bold cataclysmic decisions and solutions like Truth and Reconciliation Commissions—solutions that more often than not reveal, despite how public sensationalism can make them—the intrinsically personal nature of the words, “I forgive you.”
I don’t envy President Piñera’s dilemma. For one person to forgive and move on can often seem like an insurmountable task. When that decision affects the lives of millions, the burden is more than I can imagine.
The show goes on in Venezuela
22/07/2010
The lights are off and my radio is on.
The chilling music builds to a crescendo and the voice of someone who sounds like Vincent Price says, “What awe-inspiring moments we've experienced tonight. We've seen the remains of the great Bolívar!”
Bolívar?
A team of experts in white protective suits open the casket to reveal…a Venezuelan flag—one the last physical obstacles in the pursuit of that elusive truth—of the answer to the question that has been on the minds of everyone from Mexico City to Buenos Aires since that fateful day in December 1830: What really killed Simón José Antonio de la Santísima Trinidad Bolívar Palacios y Blanco?
“I tell you,” the voice continues, “That glorious skeleton has to be Bolívar…”
“Tuberculosis?”
And now the voice starts to sound more like Robert Stack.
“More likely, murder.”
Ok, even if my imagination has maybe amplified the level of kitsch and added a David Caruso-like one-liner, these are the actual words of Hugo Chávez.
After hundreds and hundreds of episodes, I thought the material of Aló Presidente had finally got a little dry and predictable, but alas, Hugo really has outdone himself this time.
Just brilliant.
Here he’s been all these years, renaming his country the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela (lest the statues all over the world and that country to the south with that remarkably similar name be associated with some other Bolívar) and giving away replicas of his man’s sword to Rob Mugabe and all his other misunderstood buddies. Yet somehow I didn’t see this coming.
Somewhere along the line he renounced what I thought was improvisation; but he had a vision all along, and that never should’ve been doubted.
31% inflation; rising crime rates; hundreds of thousands of pounds of imported food rotting on ports and in warehouses courtesy of his darling PDVAL (Venezuelan Food Producer and Distributor) —I thought the attempted coup back in 2002 was the rising action, his return to power—the climax, everything else an extended denouement.
That was still just the exposition.
This was always the plan for the rising action.
One thing is certain, his trusty team of CSIs will have every tool they need at their disposal to solve the case. But I really don’t know what the next move will be if somehow it’s determined his beloved Bolívar was in fact… murdered.
I haven’t thought that far ahead. Hugo certainly did.
It won’t take too much creativity to link the Monroe Doctrine (1823) to the murder (1830); after all, imperialists never change, right?
And if it really was tuberculosis?
Well, all this fun has to have at least been somewhat distracting…like maybe enough for everyone to forget about everything else till October...after those pesky parliamentary elections.
Maybe that’s a little cynical. They’re digging up the Ceauşescus in Romania.
Maybe disinterment is in. Maybe I’m out of touch with the modern zeitgeist.
And if that’s the case, the cause of death doesn’t really matter, does it?
There’re always other libertadores to dig up.
I always preferred San Martín, anyway…
The lights are off and my radio is on.
The chilling music builds to a crescendo and the voice of someone who sounds like Vincent Price says, “What awe-inspiring moments we've experienced tonight. We've seen the remains of the great Bolívar!”
Bolívar?
A team of experts in white protective suits open the casket to reveal…a Venezuelan flag—one the last physical obstacles in the pursuit of that elusive truth—of the answer to the question that has been on the minds of everyone from Mexico City to Buenos Aires since that fateful day in December 1830: What really killed Simón José Antonio de la Santísima Trinidad Bolívar Palacios y Blanco?
“I tell you,” the voice continues, “That glorious skeleton has to be Bolívar…”
“Tuberculosis?”
And now the voice starts to sound more like Robert Stack.
“More likely, murder.”
Ok, even if my imagination has maybe amplified the level of kitsch and added a David Caruso-like one-liner, these are the actual words of Hugo Chávez.
After hundreds and hundreds of episodes, I thought the material of Aló Presidente had finally got a little dry and predictable, but alas, Hugo really has outdone himself this time.
Just brilliant.
Here he’s been all these years, renaming his country the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela (lest the statues all over the world and that country to the south with that remarkably similar name be associated with some other Bolívar) and giving away replicas of his man’s sword to Rob Mugabe and all his other misunderstood buddies. Yet somehow I didn’t see this coming.
Somewhere along the line he renounced what I thought was improvisation; but he had a vision all along, and that never should’ve been doubted.
31% inflation; rising crime rates; hundreds of thousands of pounds of imported food rotting on ports and in warehouses courtesy of his darling PDVAL (Venezuelan Food Producer and Distributor) —I thought the attempted coup back in 2002 was the rising action, his return to power—the climax, everything else an extended denouement.
That was still just the exposition.
This was always the plan for the rising action.
One thing is certain, his trusty team of CSIs will have every tool they need at their disposal to solve the case. But I really don’t know what the next move will be if somehow it’s determined his beloved Bolívar was in fact… murdered.
I haven’t thought that far ahead. Hugo certainly did.
It won’t take too much creativity to link the Monroe Doctrine (1823) to the murder (1830); after all, imperialists never change, right?
And if it really was tuberculosis?
Well, all this fun has to have at least been somewhat distracting…like maybe enough for everyone to forget about everything else till October...after those pesky parliamentary elections.
Maybe that’s a little cynical. They’re digging up the Ceauşescus in Romania.
Maybe disinterment is in. Maybe I’m out of touch with the modern zeitgeist.
And if that’s the case, the cause of death doesn’t really matter, does it?
There’re always other libertadores to dig up.
I always preferred San Martín, anyway…
When it’s not safe to eat a burrito in Arizona
16/7/2010
Anyone who has spent any significant amount of time in Ottawa would have to be blind not to notice the ubiquitous presence of shawarma.
Actually, when I think about it, I’m pretty sure the city’s blind are also well aware of the meat sandwich’s prevalence; you can practically smell the garlic everywhere.
But as much as I love meat in a pita and the variety of mystery sauces with which it comes, I often crave the tacos and anticucho I used to buy from street vendors in Arequipa, Peru. In no way an epicurean—or really knowledgeable about food in any way—I have no shame in admitting I often find myself in my neighbourhood Quickie Mart in the early hours of the morning, craving the microwaveable chimichangas and burritos exposed by the blinding fluorescent light.
The other night, though, my usually vacuous inner-monologue was briefly interrupted by a serious thought:
“If I were in… say…Phoenix right now, dressed in these cut off jean shorts and this stained t-shirt, with no identification on me—would they deport me to Mexico?”
It’s pretty laughable, I guess. I mean, it’s been a nice summer and I’ve got a pretty sweet tan, but I’m pretty goddamn Teutonic, and pretty goddamn sure I could eat a burrito with impunity anywhere in Arizona.
But ever since Governor Jan Brewer signed Senate Bill 1070 I’ve had this recurring nightmare where I’m in something like John Howard Griffin’s “Black Like Me”, except I’m posing as a Mexican, and I’m swept up in a raid on a burrito stand, and despite the overwhelming sadness of the Chicanos and Mexicans in the back of the CBP truck, some are singing some old mariachi folk song a cappella, except the lyrics have been changed to tell the story of a gringo who was stupid enough to pose as a Mexican and go to a burrito stand in Arizona.
But then I wake up and think—no, they can’t do that. It’s racial profiling. It’s the DEFINITION of racial profiling! And now I read that David Salgado, a 19-year veteran of the Phoenix police department has had a nightmare of his own. At least that’s why I think he’s currently doing what he’s doing.
I imagine his nightmare goes something like this:
David’s doing his patrol in Phoenix and comes across a few Hispanic-looking individuals eating some sort of Hispanic food outside a stand selling said food, and suddenly he’s faced with a new dilemma: is there “reasonable suspicion” these individuals are here illegally? All signs point to yes. He goes in to investigate the matter further and thinks about how hungry he is and about the food he ate growing up—he is of Hispanic descent after all.
They look…Mexican. They’re eating…Mexican food. They’re pretty close to the Mexican border. He asks a few questions and realizes one of them doesn’t have identification. He claims to have gone out without his wallet.
Does he make the arrest based on “reasonable suspicion”? The guy doesn’t have much of an accent—but what does that really mean?
He gets out his handcuffs and the guy says, “You’re arresting me for looking Mexican. That’s illegal. I’m gonna sue your ass.”
And David thinks, “Yeah, I am. And yeah, you’re right. And what the hell do I do now? ”
In reality, I know very little about David Salgado. I don’t know if he looks in the mirror, sees hypocrisy, and feels compelled to act—or if he’s really just confused about how he’s supposed to do his job. But I do know that when you force people to hide their culture, when you shame them into hiding who they are—you risk creating a problem much bigger than the legions of sin papeles mowing lawns and cleaning houses in contemporary America.
For those who can’t see why I find it disturbing that Hispanic-Americans in Arizona now have to carry identification with them everywhere they go for fear of “reasonable suspicion” they’re illegal, I ask—would you go to a burrito stand in Arizona if you looked Hispanic and didn’t have any proof on you that you were a real American?
I wouldn’t.
Not unless they gave me some sort of insignia I could put on my shirt.
But wait. No. That wouldn’t work.
It kind of reminds me of what they used to do back in Germany…
Anyone who has spent any significant amount of time in Ottawa would have to be blind not to notice the ubiquitous presence of shawarma.
Actually, when I think about it, I’m pretty sure the city’s blind are also well aware of the meat sandwich’s prevalence; you can practically smell the garlic everywhere.
But as much as I love meat in a pita and the variety of mystery sauces with which it comes, I often crave the tacos and anticucho I used to buy from street vendors in Arequipa, Peru. In no way an epicurean—or really knowledgeable about food in any way—I have no shame in admitting I often find myself in my neighbourhood Quickie Mart in the early hours of the morning, craving the microwaveable chimichangas and burritos exposed by the blinding fluorescent light.
The other night, though, my usually vacuous inner-monologue was briefly interrupted by a serious thought:
“If I were in… say…Phoenix right now, dressed in these cut off jean shorts and this stained t-shirt, with no identification on me—would they deport me to Mexico?”
It’s pretty laughable, I guess. I mean, it’s been a nice summer and I’ve got a pretty sweet tan, but I’m pretty goddamn Teutonic, and pretty goddamn sure I could eat a burrito with impunity anywhere in Arizona.
But ever since Governor Jan Brewer signed Senate Bill 1070 I’ve had this recurring nightmare where I’m in something like John Howard Griffin’s “Black Like Me”, except I’m posing as a Mexican, and I’m swept up in a raid on a burrito stand, and despite the overwhelming sadness of the Chicanos and Mexicans in the back of the CBP truck, some are singing some old mariachi folk song a cappella, except the lyrics have been changed to tell the story of a gringo who was stupid enough to pose as a Mexican and go to a burrito stand in Arizona.
But then I wake up and think—no, they can’t do that. It’s racial profiling. It’s the DEFINITION of racial profiling! And now I read that David Salgado, a 19-year veteran of the Phoenix police department has had a nightmare of his own. At least that’s why I think he’s currently doing what he’s doing.
I imagine his nightmare goes something like this:
David’s doing his patrol in Phoenix and comes across a few Hispanic-looking individuals eating some sort of Hispanic food outside a stand selling said food, and suddenly he’s faced with a new dilemma: is there “reasonable suspicion” these individuals are here illegally? All signs point to yes. He goes in to investigate the matter further and thinks about how hungry he is and about the food he ate growing up—he is of Hispanic descent after all.
They look…Mexican. They’re eating…Mexican food. They’re pretty close to the Mexican border. He asks a few questions and realizes one of them doesn’t have identification. He claims to have gone out without his wallet.
Does he make the arrest based on “reasonable suspicion”? The guy doesn’t have much of an accent—but what does that really mean?
He gets out his handcuffs and the guy says, “You’re arresting me for looking Mexican. That’s illegal. I’m gonna sue your ass.”
And David thinks, “Yeah, I am. And yeah, you’re right. And what the hell do I do now? ”
In reality, I know very little about David Salgado. I don’t know if he looks in the mirror, sees hypocrisy, and feels compelled to act—or if he’s really just confused about how he’s supposed to do his job. But I do know that when you force people to hide their culture, when you shame them into hiding who they are—you risk creating a problem much bigger than the legions of sin papeles mowing lawns and cleaning houses in contemporary America.
For those who can’t see why I find it disturbing that Hispanic-Americans in Arizona now have to carry identification with them everywhere they go for fear of “reasonable suspicion” they’re illegal, I ask—would you go to a burrito stand in Arizona if you looked Hispanic and didn’t have any proof on you that you were a real American?
I wouldn’t.
Not unless they gave me some sort of insignia I could put on my shirt.
But wait. No. That wouldn’t work.
It kind of reminds me of what they used to do back in Germany…
Pink Argentina
14/7/2010
The first time I saw Buenos Aires’ Casa Rosada, I was both awed by its architectural beauty and taken aback by its bright pink hue. Of course I knew it was pink beforehand—it’s called the Pink House. But somehow that didn’t prepare me for how pink it actually is. The footage I’d seen of the ever popular Evita Perón on its balcony in all her iconic feminine power didn’t brace me for my visceral color prejudice. Because I couldn’t help but think, “The President works here? It kind of seems a little gay.”
This was somewhat mitigated by the quite possibly apocryphal history of the pink paint told to me by countless porteños. “Cow blood,” they’d say. “The pink came from cow blood.”
In a country where vegetarianism is treasonous and the asado (barbeques) is sacred, this seemed reasonable. And as I couldn’t substantiate it one way or another, I decided to believe it; it only added to the increasingly nuanced vision I had of the country.
Everything seemed to be evolving, or at least changing. It was easier to find Tiesto playing than Carlos Gardel—but there would always be a Boca-River match, and there would always be steak.
And then last January President Cristina Kirchner suddenly married two seemingly disparate themes: pork and sex. I was confused.
"Pork consumption improves sexual activity,” she told a group of businesspeople. “Besides, some nicely grilled pork is much more gratifying than taking Viagra.”
Eat pork?—in a country with a per capita beef consumption of over 150 lbs a year?
“What’s next?” I thought. “Soon they’ll be tuning out la apertura and tuning in to the NFL.”
Shortly after I was told to check out this website: http://www.faarg.com.ar/
New meat? New sports? New music?
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
That’s a rough translation of what my cab driver told me as he caught an inebriated me looking at three Christina Aguilera look-a-likes on my way back to my apartment.
He quickly cleared it up for me: they were transvestites. Later I’d be accosted on several occasions on a busy 9 de Julio by much less attractive transvestites and think, “Maybe my initial impression about the Casa Rosada was right. Cow’s blood? No…”
And then I heard about Zona X—a gaucho bar outside the city where men’s men come to meet men. It sounded gayer than Brokeback Mountain.
And then there was the Nature Reserve where I used to run—my favorite part of gentrified Puerto Madero. The smells from the chorizo stands used to torture me en route to the entrance, and I was pretty much oblivious to all the men enjoying the company of other men. That is till I read a description in a tourist guide—I paraphrase: ‘A great place to escape the city in the city, take in nature, and meet gays.”
Somehow the neck pain I endured from constantly turning my head on the subte as beautiful woman after beautiful woman got on and got off had prevented me from acknowledging how relaxed and accepting the prevailing attitudes were, which is why I find the thousands protesting the upcoming Argentine Senate vote on gay marriage so hard to fathom.
The vitriol coming from the opposition wouldn’t be out of place in a fundamentalist Bible Belt church. Catholic universities are cancelling classes so students can protest. It’s being called “God’s war”, “The Devil’s Bill”, and signs are reading things like “Children deserve a mother and father.”
At first I thought it was just another cacerolada—more protesters paid to make noise with pots and pans. But any quick look at photos of the protesters will show you there’s some serious organization putting serious pressure on the 72 Senators in whose power it is to make Argentina the first country in Latin America to approve same-sex marriage.
Cristina Kirchner’s administration has had its problems—firing recalcitrant central bankers and dismissing accusations she and her husband have done exceedingly well financially while in power, but on this issue she, as her husband did before her, has taken a clear stand.
With such division, it’s hard to know which way this vote will go. But if what my admittedly limited observations showed me is accurate, it should be a watershed moment in both Argentine and Latin American history.
The first time I saw Buenos Aires’ Casa Rosada, I was both awed by its architectural beauty and taken aback by its bright pink hue. Of course I knew it was pink beforehand—it’s called the Pink House. But somehow that didn’t prepare me for how pink it actually is. The footage I’d seen of the ever popular Evita Perón on its balcony in all her iconic feminine power didn’t brace me for my visceral color prejudice. Because I couldn’t help but think, “The President works here? It kind of seems a little gay.”
This was somewhat mitigated by the quite possibly apocryphal history of the pink paint told to me by countless porteños. “Cow blood,” they’d say. “The pink came from cow blood.”
In a country where vegetarianism is treasonous and the asado (barbeques) is sacred, this seemed reasonable. And as I couldn’t substantiate it one way or another, I decided to believe it; it only added to the increasingly nuanced vision I had of the country.
Everything seemed to be evolving, or at least changing. It was easier to find Tiesto playing than Carlos Gardel—but there would always be a Boca-River match, and there would always be steak.
And then last January President Cristina Kirchner suddenly married two seemingly disparate themes: pork and sex. I was confused.
"Pork consumption improves sexual activity,” she told a group of businesspeople. “Besides, some nicely grilled pork is much more gratifying than taking Viagra.”
Eat pork?—in a country with a per capita beef consumption of over 150 lbs a year?
“What’s next?” I thought. “Soon they’ll be tuning out la apertura and tuning in to the NFL.”
Shortly after I was told to check out this website: http://www.faarg.com.ar/
New meat? New sports? New music?
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
That’s a rough translation of what my cab driver told me as he caught an inebriated me looking at three Christina Aguilera look-a-likes on my way back to my apartment.
He quickly cleared it up for me: they were transvestites. Later I’d be accosted on several occasions on a busy 9 de Julio by much less attractive transvestites and think, “Maybe my initial impression about the Casa Rosada was right. Cow’s blood? No…”
And then I heard about Zona X—a gaucho bar outside the city where men’s men come to meet men. It sounded gayer than Brokeback Mountain.
And then there was the Nature Reserve where I used to run—my favorite part of gentrified Puerto Madero. The smells from the chorizo stands used to torture me en route to the entrance, and I was pretty much oblivious to all the men enjoying the company of other men. That is till I read a description in a tourist guide—I paraphrase: ‘A great place to escape the city in the city, take in nature, and meet gays.”
Somehow the neck pain I endured from constantly turning my head on the subte as beautiful woman after beautiful woman got on and got off had prevented me from acknowledging how relaxed and accepting the prevailing attitudes were, which is why I find the thousands protesting the upcoming Argentine Senate vote on gay marriage so hard to fathom.
The vitriol coming from the opposition wouldn’t be out of place in a fundamentalist Bible Belt church. Catholic universities are cancelling classes so students can protest. It’s being called “God’s war”, “The Devil’s Bill”, and signs are reading things like “Children deserve a mother and father.”
At first I thought it was just another cacerolada—more protesters paid to make noise with pots and pans. But any quick look at photos of the protesters will show you there’s some serious organization putting serious pressure on the 72 Senators in whose power it is to make Argentina the first country in Latin America to approve same-sex marriage.
Cristina Kirchner’s administration has had its problems—firing recalcitrant central bankers and dismissing accusations she and her husband have done exceedingly well financially while in power, but on this issue she, as her husband did before her, has taken a clear stand.
With such division, it’s hard to know which way this vote will go. But if what my admittedly limited observations showed me is accurate, it should be a watershed moment in both Argentine and Latin American history.
A letter to Manuel Noriega (I hate Van Halen, too!)
9/7/2010
Hot shoe, burnin’ down the avenue
Model citizen, zero discipline
Van Halen, Panama (1984)
Dear Manuel,
It’s anyone’s guess what must be going through your mind these days. After two decades as a common convicted felon in an American prison, I still wonder if you curse David Lee Roth’s name. I don’t want to make light of your prison sentence, because there’s nothing light about hard time, but some part of me thinks I’d prefer it to the endless barrage of Van Halen you endured while in the undoubtedly lively company of the boys at the Vatican mission back in ’89.
Oh, to be back in the eighties, eh, Manny? Back on the CIA payroll; back when money laundering was a bagatelle if it led to a greater cause. You must wonder where all this gravitas came from. Back when your buddy Pablo Escobar and the Medellin cartel were running things, Panama was practically the Switzerland of Central America, right? Do you still think of Pablo?
I do.
Especially with little Juan Pablo (Seb) (he’s so grown up now!) saying his father would be seen as “a kid in a diaper” compared to the narcotraficantes these days.
Where did it all go wrong?
Manny, at 76 years-old, you’re no spring chicken. And as you prepare to serve your seven year sentence in France for money laundering, I’m still waiting for Candid Camera our Ashton Kutcher to break the tension so we can all have a few secos and a good laugh back at one or all three of your luxurious Paris apartments. You always did know how to choose an arrondisement…
I mean, c’mon, the joke’s gotta be over—right? It was funny, but it’s been a while. And c’mon...Efraín carried out genocide in Guatemala and his daughter got to marry a Republican. This obviously had to be some sort of misunderstanding, right? I’m beginning to wonder if the French are more stubborn than the Americans!
I should mention that I loved it when you told the court how you financed your French investments with “family and personal business”, duty-free stores at the Panama airport, and money given to you by the CIA. It was a simple import-export thing, right? People just don’t understand business anymore.
And as you said, “I’m a military man and a politician, not a banker.”
Fair enough, Manny. Me too. Well, actually, I’m none of the three—but I empathize.
With CDOs and the never-ending deluge of financial derivatives that emerged in your time behind bars, nobody even pretends to understand how the financial markets work anymore. I barely even know what a bank is.
It’d be nice to go back to the halcyon days when Colombian men paid you handsomely to store their money for them. These days the Mexicans are in control and they’re a lot less predictable. Just ask their politicians (or read my post from last week—if they’re giving you internet access).
I’ve been worried about your health. A stroke? Heart problems? French health care is supposedly the best in the world. I’m confident they’ll take good care of you. But what worries me is your psychological health. Can you still hear David Lee Roth yelling, “Panama!”? Did anyone ever tell you the song is about a car?
We all grow old, and age is rarely kind to our bodies, Manuel. But nobody deserves to fall asleep to Van Halen. So if any French guard so much as thinks of subjecting you to “Panama”—well, zut alors, Amnesty International and I will be there prontito, señor.
Tu amigo canadiense,
BJ
Hot shoe, burnin’ down the avenue
Model citizen, zero discipline
Van Halen, Panama (1984)
Dear Manuel,
It’s anyone’s guess what must be going through your mind these days. After two decades as a common convicted felon in an American prison, I still wonder if you curse David Lee Roth’s name. I don’t want to make light of your prison sentence, because there’s nothing light about hard time, but some part of me thinks I’d prefer it to the endless barrage of Van Halen you endured while in the undoubtedly lively company of the boys at the Vatican mission back in ’89.
Oh, to be back in the eighties, eh, Manny? Back on the CIA payroll; back when money laundering was a bagatelle if it led to a greater cause. You must wonder where all this gravitas came from. Back when your buddy Pablo Escobar and the Medellin cartel were running things, Panama was practically the Switzerland of Central America, right? Do you still think of Pablo?
I do.
Especially with little Juan Pablo (Seb) (he’s so grown up now!) saying his father would be seen as “a kid in a diaper” compared to the narcotraficantes these days.
Where did it all go wrong?
Manny, at 76 years-old, you’re no spring chicken. And as you prepare to serve your seven year sentence in France for money laundering, I’m still waiting for Candid Camera our Ashton Kutcher to break the tension so we can all have a few secos and a good laugh back at one or all three of your luxurious Paris apartments. You always did know how to choose an arrondisement…
I mean, c’mon, the joke’s gotta be over—right? It was funny, but it’s been a while. And c’mon...Efraín carried out genocide in Guatemala and his daughter got to marry a Republican. This obviously had to be some sort of misunderstanding, right? I’m beginning to wonder if the French are more stubborn than the Americans!
I should mention that I loved it when you told the court how you financed your French investments with “family and personal business”, duty-free stores at the Panama airport, and money given to you by the CIA. It was a simple import-export thing, right? People just don’t understand business anymore.
And as you said, “I’m a military man and a politician, not a banker.”
Fair enough, Manny. Me too. Well, actually, I’m none of the three—but I empathize.
With CDOs and the never-ending deluge of financial derivatives that emerged in your time behind bars, nobody even pretends to understand how the financial markets work anymore. I barely even know what a bank is.
It’d be nice to go back to the halcyon days when Colombian men paid you handsomely to store their money for them. These days the Mexicans are in control and they’re a lot less predictable. Just ask their politicians (or read my post from last week—if they’re giving you internet access).
I’ve been worried about your health. A stroke? Heart problems? French health care is supposedly the best in the world. I’m confident they’ll take good care of you. But what worries me is your psychological health. Can you still hear David Lee Roth yelling, “Panama!”? Did anyone ever tell you the song is about a car?
We all grow old, and age is rarely kind to our bodies, Manuel. But nobody deserves to fall asleep to Van Halen. So if any French guard so much as thinks of subjecting you to “Panama”—well, zut alors, Amnesty International and I will be there prontito, señor.
Tu amigo canadiense,
BJ
When Ortega becomes Somoza and Sandino is forgotten
7/7/2010
Perhaps if Alberto Korda had photographed Augusto César Sandino, we might now be inundated with the face of a Nicaraguan mechanic as opposed to an Argentine doctor. As a practitioner of guerilla warfare, Sandino not only predated Che, but left behind a history less prone to the whims of historical revision of both the detractors and champions of the former. Were that even possible, few could have preferred Sandino’s take on Pancho Villa to Ernesto’s beret and matted locks. Aesthetically there wouldn’t have been much competition. But for those less beholden to a particular image, the Nicaraguan’s legacy is less contested than his predecessor. And on the subject of legacies, though in a modern context—the political party that still uses his name once made a significant contribution to not only Nicaragua, but to Central American stability: they lost an unfair April 1990 election to Violeta Chamorro and accepted defeat in a way no revolutionary group in Latin America had ever done—peacefully.
The FSLN waited for their turn to take another shot at establishing their vision of Nicaragua. But since Daniel Ortega’s victory in 2006, FSLN rule has begun to look more and more like the hated Somoza rule they so valiantly fought. No one has clarified this development better than Eduardo Montealegre, Ortega’s closest opponent in the 2006 Presidential election: “it’s clear he’s not a romantic revolutionary, but rather a copy of Anastasio Somoza.”
Normally the comments of an Ivy-league educated man from the traditional elite who failed to unseat a former guerilla might be seen as nothing more than the bitter ramblings of an unsuccessful dissident.
That certainly wouldn’t be accurate now.
Just this week, five Nicaraguan mayors were removed from office without justification. The most blatant case was Hugo Barquero in Boaco, a small town northeast of Managua that hasn’t traditionally supported the FLSN. The city council of hilly and quaint Boaco brought the small city to national and international attention this week when it’s Sandinista-dominated city council voted to remove Barquero from office; his offence, the story goes, is mismanagement. He’s still waiting for a report or any form of evidence for that matter.
The reason for his removal was obvious: Barquero refused to support Ortega’s re-election. And in the Orwellian context of present-day Nicaragua, that means the end of the road for those with political aspirations. Of course that didn’t mean Barquero went down without a fight; it did take police in riot gear to get him and his supporters out of city hall…
But where is all this leading?
It depends on how long the international community is willing to let the charade go on.
Hugo Chavez continues to lavish money on the Ortega machine; back in 2008, Ortega himself claimed that number was as high as $521 million, with the majority supposedly going to his “Zero Hunger” program (strangely enough the Banco Central de Nicaragua’s numbers didn’t match). And of course there’s the overruling of the 1995 amendment to the constitution that prevented re-election—an amendment that at the time was fully supported by the FSLN, but once back in control was ruled unconstitutional by Sandinista judges—an act of such egregious and preposterous judicial manipulation that all but the staunchest supporters felt compelled to condemn it.
So barring foreign intervention, an Ortega in his mid sixties appears poised to continue on as President by winning an election in 2011 almost certain—like 2008’s municipal elections—to be void of any international monitoring. And the significant achievements of the FSLN governments in the 80s—massive illiteracy reductions, the elimination of polio, reduced infant mortality—are all beginning to seem like distant memories, replaced instead by images of the Chureca garbage dump (see Geoff Bugbee’s photographs if you want a vision of hell on earth; the link is below) and real evidence of mismanagement.
Sandino, the man from whom Ortega apparently discovered his raison d’être, once said, “You always have to situate yourself on the side of honor and justice.” Never more than now have Nicaraguans and the international community wished those words might again inspire a man with whom—in his revolutionary days and the beginning of his first presidency—they might not always have agreed, but at the very least, respected.
(http://www.geoffbugbee.com)
Perhaps if Alberto Korda had photographed Augusto César Sandino, we might now be inundated with the face of a Nicaraguan mechanic as opposed to an Argentine doctor. As a practitioner of guerilla warfare, Sandino not only predated Che, but left behind a history less prone to the whims of historical revision of both the detractors and champions of the former. Were that even possible, few could have preferred Sandino’s take on Pancho Villa to Ernesto’s beret and matted locks. Aesthetically there wouldn’t have been much competition. But for those less beholden to a particular image, the Nicaraguan’s legacy is less contested than his predecessor. And on the subject of legacies, though in a modern context—the political party that still uses his name once made a significant contribution to not only Nicaragua, but to Central American stability: they lost an unfair April 1990 election to Violeta Chamorro and accepted defeat in a way no revolutionary group in Latin America had ever done—peacefully.
The FSLN waited for their turn to take another shot at establishing their vision of Nicaragua. But since Daniel Ortega’s victory in 2006, FSLN rule has begun to look more and more like the hated Somoza rule they so valiantly fought. No one has clarified this development better than Eduardo Montealegre, Ortega’s closest opponent in the 2006 Presidential election: “it’s clear he’s not a romantic revolutionary, but rather a copy of Anastasio Somoza.”
Normally the comments of an Ivy-league educated man from the traditional elite who failed to unseat a former guerilla might be seen as nothing more than the bitter ramblings of an unsuccessful dissident.
That certainly wouldn’t be accurate now.
Just this week, five Nicaraguan mayors were removed from office without justification. The most blatant case was Hugo Barquero in Boaco, a small town northeast of Managua that hasn’t traditionally supported the FLSN. The city council of hilly and quaint Boaco brought the small city to national and international attention this week when it’s Sandinista-dominated city council voted to remove Barquero from office; his offence, the story goes, is mismanagement. He’s still waiting for a report or any form of evidence for that matter.
The reason for his removal was obvious: Barquero refused to support Ortega’s re-election. And in the Orwellian context of present-day Nicaragua, that means the end of the road for those with political aspirations. Of course that didn’t mean Barquero went down without a fight; it did take police in riot gear to get him and his supporters out of city hall…
But where is all this leading?
It depends on how long the international community is willing to let the charade go on.
Hugo Chavez continues to lavish money on the Ortega machine; back in 2008, Ortega himself claimed that number was as high as $521 million, with the majority supposedly going to his “Zero Hunger” program (strangely enough the Banco Central de Nicaragua’s numbers didn’t match). And of course there’s the overruling of the 1995 amendment to the constitution that prevented re-election—an amendment that at the time was fully supported by the FSLN, but once back in control was ruled unconstitutional by Sandinista judges—an act of such egregious and preposterous judicial manipulation that all but the staunchest supporters felt compelled to condemn it.
So barring foreign intervention, an Ortega in his mid sixties appears poised to continue on as President by winning an election in 2011 almost certain—like 2008’s municipal elections—to be void of any international monitoring. And the significant achievements of the FSLN governments in the 80s—massive illiteracy reductions, the elimination of polio, reduced infant mortality—are all beginning to seem like distant memories, replaced instead by images of the Chureca garbage dump (see Geoff Bugbee’s photographs if you want a vision of hell on earth; the link is below) and real evidence of mismanagement.
Sandino, the man from whom Ortega apparently discovered his raison d’être, once said, “You always have to situate yourself on the side of honor and justice.” Never more than now have Nicaraguans and the international community wished those words might again inspire a man with whom—in his revolutionary days and the beginning of his first presidency—they might not always have agreed, but at the very least, respected.
(http://www.geoffbugbee.com)
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