Posted on 13-8-2002
Not
Enough Trash To Go Around
By Anthony Faiola, Washington Post Foreign Service,
Tuesday, August 6, 2002
ROSARIO, Argentina -- Word spread fast through the vast urban
slums
ringing Rosario. There was food on the freeway -- and it was
still alive.
A cattle truck had overturned near this rusting industrial city,
spilling
22 head of prime Angus beef across the wind-swept highway. Some
were
dead. Most were injured. A few were fine. A mob moved out from
Las
Flores, a shantytown of trash heaps and metal shacks boiling
over with
refugees from the financial collapse of what was once Latin
America's
wealthiest nation. Within minutes, 600 hungry residents arrived
on the
scene, wielding machetes and carving knives. Suddenly, according
to
accounts from some of those present on that March day, a cry
went up.
"Kill the cows!" someone yelled. "Take what you can!"
Cattle company workers attempting a salvage operation backed
off. And the
slaughter began. The scent of blood, death and fresh meat filled
the
highway. Cows bellowed as they were sloppily diced by groups
of men,
women and children. Fights broke out for pieces of flesh in
bloody tugs
of war. "I looked around at people dragging off cow legs, heads
and
organs, and I couldn't believe my eyes," said Alberto Banrel,
43, who
worked on construction jobs until last January, when the bottom
fell out
of the economy after Argentina suffered the world's largest
debt default
ever and a massive currency devaluation. "And yet there I was,
with my
own bloody knife and piece of meat," Banrel said. "I felt like
we had
become a pack of wild animals . . . like piranhas on the Discovery
Channel. Our situation has turned us into this." The desolation
of that
day, neighbour vs. neighbour over hunks of meat, suggested how
profoundly
the collapse has altered Argentina. Traditionally proud, Argentines
have
begun to despair. Talk today is of vanished dignity, of a nation
diminished in ways not previously imaginable.
Argentines have a legacy of chaos and division. In search of
their
"workers' paradise," Juan and Eva Peron declared war on the
rich. During
the "dirty war" of the 1970s, military rulers arrested tens
of thousands
of people, 15,000 of whom never resurfaced. And when then-President
Carlos Menem touted New Capitalism in the 1990s, the rich got
richer --
many illegally -- while the poor got poorer.
Yet some things here never really changed. Until last year,
Argentines
were part of the richest, best-educated and most cultured nation
in Latin
America. Luciano Pavarotti still performed at the Teatro Colon.
Buenos
Aires cafe society thrived, with intellectuals debating passages
from
Jorge Luis Borges over croissants and espresso. The poor here
lived with
more dignity than their equals anywhere else in the region.
Argentina
was, as the Argentines liked to say, very civilized. Not anymore.
Argentines have watched, horrified, as the meltdown dissolved
more than
their pocketbooks. Even the rich have been affected in their
own way. The
tragedy has struck hardest, however, among the middle class,
the urban
poor and the dirt farmers. Their parts of this once-proud society
appear
to have collapsed -- a cave-in so complete as to leave Argentines
inhabiting a barely recognizable landscape. With government
statistics
showing 11,200 people a day falling into poverty -- earning
less than $3
daily -- Buenos Aires, a city once compared to Paris, has become
the
dominion of scavengers and thieves at night. Newly impoverished
homeless
people emerge from abandoned buildings and rail cars, rummaging
through
trash in declining middle- and upper-class neighborhoods. People
from the
disappearing middle class, such as Vicente Pitasi, 60 and jobless,
have
turned to pawn shops to sell their wedding rings. "I have seen
a lot
happen in Argentina in my day, but I never lost hope until now,"
Pitasi
said. "There is nothing left here, not even our pride."
Wages Fall, Prices Rise
Late last month, on the eve of the 50th anniversary of Eva Peron's
death,
thieves swiped the head of a new statue of her. Nothing, really,
is
sacred here anymore. Ads by concerned citizens appear on television,
asking Argentines to look inward at a culture of tax evasion,
incivility
and corruption. But nobody seems to be listening. Food manufacturers
and
grocery stores are raising prices even as earning power has
taken a
historic tumble. A large factor in both the price rises and
the slump in
real wages is a 70 percent devaluation of the peso over the
last six
months. But the price of flour has soared 166 percent, canned
tomatoes
118 percent -- even though both are local products that have
had little
real increases in production costs.
Severe hunger and malnutrition have emerged in the rural interior
--
something almost never seen in a country famous for great slabs
of beef
and undulating fields of wheat. In search of someone to blame,
Argentines
have attacked the homes of local politicians and foreign banks.
Many of
the banks have installed steel walls and armed guards around
branch
offices, and replaced glass windows decorated with ads portraying
happy
clients from another era.
Economists and politicians differ on the causes of the brutal
crisis.
Some experts blame globalization and faulty policies imposed
by the
International Monetary Fund. But just as many blame the Argentine
government for runaway spending and systematic corruption. The
one thing
everyone agrees on, however, is that there is no easy fix. Statistically,
it is easy to see why. Before 1999, when this country of 36
million
inhabitants slipped into recession, Argentina's per capita income
was
$8,909 -- double Mexico's and three times that of Poland. Today,
per
capita income has sunk to $2,500, roughly on a par with Jamaica
and
Belarus. The economy is projected to shrink by 15 percent this
year,
putting the decline at 21 percent since 1999. In the Great Depression
years of 1930-33, the Argentine economy shrank by 14 percent.
What had been a snowball of poverty and unemployment has turned
into an
avalanche since January's default and devaluation. A record
number of
Argentines, more than half, live below the official poverty
line. More
than one in five no longer have jobs. "We've had our highs and
lows, but
in statistical and human terms, this nation has never faced
anything like
this," said Artemio Lopez, an economist with Equis Research.
"Our
economic problems of the past pale to what we're going through
now. It's
like the nation is dissolving."
The Suffering Middle Class
Every Argentine, no matter the social class, has a crisis story.
Amalia
Lacroze de Fortabat, 80, one of the country's richest women,
was forced
to offer up paintings by Gauguin, Degas, Miro and Matisse at
a Sotheby's
auction in May. For many of Argentina's well-to-do, the sale
was the
ultimate humbler, a symbol of decline in international stature.
Those suffering most, however, are the ones who had less to
begin with.
Argentina long had the largest middle class, proportionally,
in Latin
America, and one of the continent's most equitable distributions
of
wealth. Much of that changed over the last decade as millions
of middle
managers, salaried factory workers and state employees lost
their jobs
during the sell-off of state-run industries and the collapse
of local
companies flooded by cheap imports.
Initially, Rodolfo Gonzalez was one of the lucky ones. An engineer
for
the state power company, he survived the early rounds of layoffs
in the
early 1990s when the company was sold to a Spanish utility giant.
His
luck changed when the company forced him out in a round of early
retirements in 2000. He was 59 and had worked for the same company
for 38
years. Yet he landed a part-time job, and with his severance
pay safely
in the bank, he and his wife thought they could bridge the gap
until
Gonzalez became eligible for social security in 2004. Then came
"El
Corralito." Literally translated, that means "the little corral."
But
there is nothing little about it. On Dec. 1, Domingo Cavallo,
then the
economy minister, froze bank accounts in an attempt to stem
a flood of
panicked depositors pulling out cash.
Most banks here are subsidiaries of major U.S. and European
financial
giants that arrived with promises of providing stability and
safety to
the local banking system. But many Argentines who did not get
their money
out in time -- more than 7 million, mostly middle-class depositors,
did
not -- faced a bitter reality: Their life savings in those institutions,
despite names such as Citibank and BankBoston, were practically
wiped
out. Virtually all had kept their savings in U.S. dollar-denominated
accounts. But when the government devalued the peso, it gave
troubled
banks the right to convert those dollar deposits into pesos.
So the
Gonzalez family's $42,000 nest egg, now converted into pesos,
is worth
less than $11,600.
As the family had trouble covering basic costs, Norma Gonzalez
would go
to the bank almost every week to argue with tellers and demand
to see a
manager, who would never appear. As prices rose and the couple
could not
draw on their savings, their lifestyle suffered. First went
shows in the
Buenos Aires theater district and dinners on Saturday night
with friends.
Then, in March, they cut cable TV. Around the same time, the
Gonzalezes'
daughter, Paula, 30, lost her convenience store. Separated and
with two
children, she turned to her parents for support.
The Gonzalezes had been planning for 18 months to take Norma's
dream
vacation, to Chicago to visit a childhood friend. After the
trip was
shelved as too expensive, she seemed to break. "I can't explain
it, and
maybe I never will be able to," Rodolfo Gonzalez said. He added:
"But
maybe you can start to figure out why. You have to wonder: Is
all this
really happening? Are our politicians so corrupt? Are we now
really so
poor? Have the banks really stolen our money? And the answers
are yes,
yes, yes and yes."
Scavenging Urban Trash
"There is not enough trash to go around for everyone," said
Banrel, one
of the participants in the cattle massacre. Rail-thin, he normally
passes
his days combing the garbage-strewn roads around the Las Flores
slums in
Rosario, a city of 1.3 million residents 200 miles northwest
of Buenos
Aires and long known as "the Chicago of Argentina." If Banrel
finds
enough discarded plastic bottles and aluminum cans -- about
300 -- he can
make about $3 a day. But the pickings are slim because competition
is
fierce. The misery villages, as shantytowns such as Las Flores
are
called, are becoming overcrowded with the arrival of people
fleeing
desperate rural areas where starvation has set in. About 150
new families
arrive each month, according to Roman Catholic Church authorities.
With more people in the slums, there are fewer plastic bottles
to go
around. Banrel said he was getting desperate that day when he
joined the
mob on the highway. His family of three -- his wife is pregnant
with
their second child -- had been surviving on a bowl of watery
soup and a
piece of bread each day. He earned at least $40 to $60 a week
last year
working construction. With that gone, and with food getting
more
expensive, he said, "You can't miss an opportunity, not around
here. "Am
I proud of what we did?" he added. "No, of course not. Would
I do it
again? Yes, of course. You start to live by different rules."
Reality of Rural Hunger
For some rural families, the crisis has gone further. It has
generated
something rarely seen in Argentina: hunger. In the province
of Tucuman,
an agricultural zone of 1.3 million people, health workers say
cases of
malnutrition have risen 20 percent to 30 percent over the previous
year.
"I wish they would cry," whispered Beatriz Orresta, 20, looking
at her
two young sons in a depressed Tucuman sugar cane town in the
shadow of
the Andes. "I would feel much better if they cried." Jonatan,
2, resting
on the dirt floor behind the family's wooden shack, and Santiago,
the
7-month-old she cradled in her arms, lay listlessly. "They don't
act it,
but they're hungry. I know they are," she said.
Orresta can tell. Jonatan is lethargic. His lustrous brown hair
has
turned a sickly carrot color. Clumps of it sometimes fall out
at night as
Orresta strokes him to sleep. Santiago hardly seems to mind
that Orresta,
weak and malnourished herself, stopped lactating months ago.
The infant,
sucking on a bottle of boiled herbal tea, stares blankly with
sunken
eyes. Six months ago, the boys were the loudest complainers
when their
regular meals stopped. Orresta's husband, Hector Ariel, 21,
had his $100
monthly salary as a sugar cane cutter slashed almost in half
when candy
companies and other sugar manufacturers in the rural enclave
of Rio
Chico, 700 miles northwest of Buenos Aires, were stung by dried-up
credit
and a massive drop in national consumption. Ariel now earns
just over
$1.50 a day, not enough for the family to survive. The peso's
plunge has
generated inflation of more than 33 percent during the first
seven months
of the year, more than double the government's projection for
the entire
year.
Goods not in high demand, such as new clothing, have not gone
up
significantly in price, but staples that families need for daily
subsistence have doubled or tripled. The last time inflation
hit
Argentina -- in the late 1980s, when it rose to a high of 5,000
percent
-- the unemployment rate was half the current 21.5 percent and
most
salaries were indexed to inflation. Today, there are no such
safety nets.
"I could buy rice for 30 cents a kilo last year," Orresta said.
"It's
more than one peso 50 now. "At least we will eat tonight, that's
the
important thing," she said, stirring an improvised soup.
The concoction, water mixed with the dried bones of a long-dead
cow her
husband found in an abandoned field, had been simmering for
two days. The
couple had not eaten in that time. It had been 24 hours since
the
children ate. Orresta, like most mothers in her village, started
trimming
costs by returning to cloth diapers for her two young boys when
the price
of disposable ones doubled with inflation. But then she could
no longer
afford the soap to wash them, and resorted to reusing the same
detergent
four or five times. The children began to get leg rashes. By
late
January, the family could no longer afford daily meals. A month
later,
Jonatan's hair began turning reddish and, later, falling out.
Although he
has just turned 2, Jonatan still cannot walk and has trouble
focusing his
eyes.
Orresta stopped lactating in April. But the price of powdered
milk had
almost tripled by then, from three pesos for an 800-gram box
to more than
eight pesos. At those prices, the family can afford 11 days
of milk a
month. The rest of the time, Santiago drinks boiled maté, a
tea that also
serves as an appetite suppressant. "You know, we're not used
to this, not
having enough food," said Orresta, with a hint of embarrassment
in her
voice. She paused, and began to weep. "You can't know what it's
like to
see your children hungry and feel helpless to stop it," she
said. "The
food is there, in the grocery store, but you just can't afford
to buy it
anymore. My husband keeps working, but he keeps bringing home
less and
less. We never had much, but we always had food, no matter how
bad things
got. But these are not normal times."
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